Kershov’s ears perked curiously as Minaj spun him a tale of hellhounds, her lyrics light and teasing as she wove her ever-graceful frame through the dark scenery before them. The espresso wolfess blended perfectly into this land; she moved about the trees and greenery as if she were a part of it, her pelt crafted with the richest earth and the supplest limbs and given a spirit of forest shadows. Minaj’s allure was almost surreal. Many she-wolves grew gentler in pregnancy, the appeal they once cultivated softening into a dewy glow of imminent motherhood—but Minaj’s mystery sharpened, as if she knew what stunning secrets she harbored in her womb and she reveled in the fact like some pagan goddess. Her confidence was dazzling. May the gods pity any poor miscreant that thought he could overpower this lithe pythoness while she carried pups . . .

“Your concern is touching,” Kershov replied smoothly to Minaj’s warning, “but I would hope that the mother of my pups would refrain from further disfiguring my ‘pretty face’ . . .” Yes, he had indirectly called her one of the hellhounds that she’d cautioned him of; yet it was easy to see by the amused glint in his onyx windows that Ker knew of no other creature as fatal as Minaj and therefore the comparison was a compliment. No mere hellhound could rival the danger of this Hell Queen.

The thick sea of grass under his paws melded into and gave way for a new carpet of deep green moss as the pair traveled. Kershov noted the change in terrain with little concern: it was the overwhelming change in aura that grabbed his attention. As surely as if an iron curtain had been tossed over the woods, Ker sensed a sinister cloud of death and despair lounging heavily above. Intrigued, the alabaster Alpha allowed his cunning gaze to sweep the landscape, searching for any concrete clue as to why the very taste of evil tainted this place.

When Minaj brightly shared her favored scent—that of a decomposing cadaver—Kershov merely chuckled, black humor tickled by the vicious fact. He was not surprised. Minaj could have told him that she loved cuddling with bones before she napped and the ivory warrior would have been equally accepting—

Speaking of scents . . .

Kershov was not a stupid wolf, but he could have bitten himself for his ignorance when the faint perfume strung across the foliage finally bloomed thick enough for him to name. His scythe-sharp stare sliced toward Minaj’s smoky amber gems, all traces of amusement gone. Ice-white hackles lifted ever so slightly between tough-muscled shoulders. How very embarrassing. Minaj was better at pretending that Kershov could have ever dreamed.

Minaj’s charming smile was met with a mask of stone. His words dripped like frost as he answered her, silvering the air. “I know where we are, Madame Queens. I’m just not quite sure I believe it.” A low winter laugh rumbled from his throat. “You win, my dear.”