Kershov possessed a surprising amount of diplomacy for a wolf that had lived a good portion of his life running a savage gang. Honestly, he should have been commended for his good grace and cool manners, his ability to wrestle his writhing rage into the pit of his stomach while maintaining an outward façade of total control—it was a pretty damn impressive talent. Extraordinary, really. For instance: even though he very badly wanted to wear a warped snarl when Queens approached him regret, Ker stared back with a glacially neutral expression, as if patiently waiting for her to arrive at her point. No seismic growl throttled his throat; his hackles were lifted, but not spiked, between his shoulder blades; his talons did not rip or worry the earth beneath his paws. No. None of that. He was a Regal, for heaven’s sake—he wouldn’t debase himself by allowing this new revelation to crumble his self-control.

He would, however, say terrible things in his mind. His vicious thoughts refused to stay silent as his vocal cords lay still.

Yes, I DID need to know, probably a few months ago actually. That would have simplified things. The snow-born dragon’s midnight pools held the fire of Queens’ burning ambers without flinching. His stare carried about as much warmth and emotion as a reptile’s; it was all business, all calculation and cunning. A mission to ensure you’re pack’s safety, hmm? My, that’s an interesting way to go about such an end—impregnating oneself rather than recruiting new flesh. Quite interesting indeed. Anger clawed at the insides of Kershov’s ribcage and he ferociously fought it down. He even managed to quietly tilt his head, as if he were taking Queens’ empty words to heart. When the espresso seductress stepped closer, nearer to him than she’d been this whole conversation, the white knight graciously remained unmoving, unaffected. Despite his feelings (yes, Kershov had FEELINGS, and they were just as frigid and unforgiving as the creature they inhabited) the alabaster Alpha would not attack Queens. He would never attack the sable minx. This had nothing to do with chivalry, for Queens had proven herself Kershov’s equal and would therefore hold her own in a fight, unlike a lesser female; and it had nothing whatsoever to do with compassion, because—though he wanted his pups no less than before—Ker had absolutely no qualms about attacking a pregnant bitch under any other circumstance. The ivory gladiator knew perfectly well that harming Queens this close to her pack would be suicide, not to mention extremely inconvenient for Abendrot.

And, perhaps, somewhere under all that betrayal and righteous wrath . . . Kershov honestly respected her. She had manipulated him flawlessly. There was no other proper reaction than genuine admiration.

You terrible, treacherous, glorious thing.

He held his tongue until Queens was completely finished speaking. See? The perfect gentleman. As always.

“I cannot.” This was spoken utterly without malice or bitterness. Kershov’s icy expression did not soften, yet he had clearly conquered his ire. Bleached hackles lay smoothly along his spine once more and his hard ebony eyes banished some of their simmering emotion. The moon-white monster faced the chocolate-painted femme with true neutrality. “Notice that I say ‘cannot,’ Queens.” Kershov took a deep breath, preparing to explain himself—

When another pale gentleman arrived. Wonderful. A witness.

Ker did not disguise his inner irritation this time. His ears flattened against his skull and he glared at the Malignant fighter with open disgust written across his war-torn face. The bone-toned stranger had obviously just completed a hunt; more obvious than the scent of freshly killed prey hanging about the brute was an aura of fiery annoyance. Ah. So the stranger was feeling a tad pissy. What—did he want Miss Queens to kiss it and make everything all better? Kershov could have murdered the pretentious little prick when he unapologetically took a seat by Queens, a smartass smirk plastered on his face. Did Malignant wolves not know the meaning of privacy? Did they hold important discussions in front of fucking everyone and their brother? If whitey here thought Kershov was going to hurt his precious Alphess, Ker would have much preferred a true stance of aggression—that, at least, the arctic gangbanger could understand.

“Odd. In Abendrot, we teach pups not to eavesdrop.” Without another word the frozen demon stubbornly reverted his attention back at the shadowy form of his trickster lover. Let Queens deal with her own soldiers. If she wanted an audience, so be it.