Kershov had finally found a cure for nightmares.

Atrocious dreams did not often torment the rugged arctic warrior, but when they did, they flooded his being with inescapable darkness, dragging his consciousness under while he twitched and panted—silently drowning—in warped memories. Unconsciousness was the only time panic ever tainted his perfect calm. Nightmarish thoughts never dared intrude upon the fatally serene depths of his mind when he was awake; Ker stubbornly wrestled down those infinitely rare shreds of regret and bitterness that occasionally reared their ugly heads and crushed them into nothingness. Kershov forbid such meaningless tripe to cloud his plans. He had carved himself into a creature of vengeance and efficiency—petty fears had no place in his life. He was without anxiety. Without guilt. Under normal circumstances traverse safely into an equally cultivated dream world . . . but tonight had been different.

The ivory Alpha had suffered through two hours of ridiculous nightmares. After ripping himself back into the real world with a guttural snarl and frustration etched in every line of his darkly handsome face, Kershov stalked toward the series of caves that had served as Vladya’s dungeon and sought out water. A few slender streams of groundwater trickled over the mossy boulders and empted into shallow pools; these the imperial gladiator stood under to clear his head. “Fuck,”, Ker growled eloquently as shiver-cold water poured over is brow. He arched his spine until it touched the wet rock, drawing some of its coolness into his dream-fevered body. It felt like a tundra kiss. Ah. Just like home. Blessedly, the water seemed to erase the lingering horror of his nightmare and wash it away in the puddle at his paws. Gods, he could stand under here forever, water dripping into his snowy pelt like ice and clearing his mind—

A howl interrupted his calm. A familiar song. Kershov’s head, which had been dropping toward his chest as he relaxed, jerked upright, ears erect. A half-smile of disbelief curled his tattered lips. “Lady Aviias is back home. How very nice.”

The King of Abendrot didn’t keep Aviias waiting. Moonlight glittered off the water droplets caught in Kershov’s fur as he sprinted—ghostly quiet—from the forest’s cover and into the open area by the border. As usual, Aviias was the picture of strength and obstinacy, equal parts beautiful and infuriating. His obsidian lanterns bored into her clear oceans of blue. “Where have you been, dear one? And more importantly—why did you come back?”