Kershov glanced over at Enigma at last, his onyx pools meeting her beautifully paired emerald and sapphire gems. The black-masked Beta always proved fascinating to talk to; her wisdom resonated with the alabaster gangster in a way that very, very few others had matched. She wasn’t one of those simpering fools that flirted and rambled her way through life—well, Enigma flirted, but her brand of flirtation rested firmly in the realms of cunning seduction, her moves and charms all carefully crafted and brilliantly executed. She was outstandingly intelligent. A realistic, rational thinker. Loyal. Strong. In short, the porcelain goddess was precisely what Kershov wanted in a mate . . . except he needed her talents elsewhere, and the glacial King honestly believed that neither of them was well suited for those adorable true monogamous relationships most wolves sought. How could they be, when their lives had been forged in lands that tore such bonds apart? Ker didn’t know about Enigma’s past, and she didn’t know much about his, yet the unspoken understanding they shared felt real just the same. They didn’t need sessions of spilling their guts to each other to get one another.

Hmm. A little heart-to-heart couldn’t hurt, though . . . right?

Oh, wait—Kershov was still technically spoken for. Ah well. Whatever Sil didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t as if she’d been breathing down his neck lately. Hell—for all Ker knew, the fire wolfess was most likely spending a little quality time with some secret beau’s of her own.

“I didn’t mean it,” the snowy Pharaoh answered half-heartedly. He found himself studying the outline of Enigma’s mask, the way the black fur painted stark shadows around her almond-shaped eyes like smudged mascara. “Gracious. You make the idea sound so . . . offensive. I was only thinking of Abendrot. All the mouths we have to feed.” That last part was spoken with an undertone of frosty irritation as Kershov thought about the too-high number of military personnel slacking off as of late. The Alpha couldn’t really talk, since his demonic face hadn’t been seen as often as it should have been on the borders; however, Kershov would always see room for improvement within his pack. Constantly striving for perfection was what galvanized armies to be great—sitting still in stagnant satisfaction made kingdoms crumble. Then his deadly, dark humor returned, along with a teasing glint in the depths of his once emotionless glare. “We’ll allow her to live for now. I’ve discovered that puppies are the perfect size for chew toys. I wonder who the bastard father is? And if he’s still alive?” He turned to face the slumbering lass again, now fighting the urge to wander in and wake her up, demanding answers. “Abendrot will need to pursue justice if any harm has come to one of our own.”