“You wish that I had killed you, don’t you?” Kershov’s slanted black eyes narrowed into twin swords as he glared down at Vladya, his ex-underling, with utmost revulsion. His smooth, slithering words reverberated with a dangerous seismic growl, yet the Ice King’s war-torn face remained eerily impassive. Emotionless. Unpredictable. It was moments like this that Vladya wished his Alpha would do something—ANYTHING—to break the hellish tension strung like cords of steel through the shivering air. Even a bite to the jugular would have been preferred to this mock-polite conversation. It was unbearable . . . but then, that was part of Vlad’s punishment. The only thing the beaten dog could ever expect his master to do was to be as cruel as possible. “I probably should have executed you, come to think of it. Wasn’t that my ultimatum? Loyalty or die?” A humorless chuckle rumbled from Ker’s throat. Idly, his long claws scratched at the stone beneath his paws. The dry scraping sound sent chills skittering up Vladya’s spine. Oh, wait—Vladya had no spine. Pathetic cur. “It’s funny, really . . . if this had been a few years ago, I would not have bothered to keep you here. You’re a waste of resources. A waste of energy. And you are dead to me anyway.”

Vlad said nothing. His pyrite gaze, one eye permanently blood-red from a past foe’s vicious pummeling blow, never wavered from its fixture on Kershov’s glittering teeth. Ker dearly wished his ex-subject would do something stupid. It wasn’t as fun attacking a target that refused to play along. Wolves were wired to chase prey that moved, not prey that sat pretty and awaited its fate. With a sigh, the rumble died in the ivory warrior’s throat. When he spoke next, his voice carried all the bitterness of ice—and a surprisingly emotional note that might have been mistaken as pleading if Kershov had been any other warm-hearted soul. “If you did something with your fucking worthless life, I would vindicate you, Vladya. I’d have you work under my rule again as the dependable bastard I knew on our tundra. If you clawed your way out of shame, I would make it worth the effort.”

“I’ve never heard you talk this much, boss,” Vladya muttered stiffly. Now his eyes slid down toward his paws. Frigid hackles lifted slightly upon his bruised neck. “Don’t tell me the ruthless gangleader finally went soft.”

Ker ground his daggers thoughtfully, studying the ragged patches of pale fur still trying to grow over the fresh scars shredded into Vladya’s flesh. Scars Kershov himself had sewn. “Strange. I do feel more talkative than I used to.” And with that, the alabaster Alpha lunged at the prisoner and opened a new gash across his face with a vengeful fang, stalking away from that infuriating urchin before Vlad’s blood had even hit the soil. Another pointless conversation, another wound. Kershov seriously doubted Vladya would ever fight back. The broken soldier was too far gone; he believed in his very core that he deserved his sentence, and as Ruler of Abendrot Kershov would continue to torture Vlad as that sentence required. It was a savage, useless struggle. But every pack needed a punching bag . . .

“Fuck.” That single phrase just about summed up Kershov’s dark thoughts. His Imperial Majesty chose to take a leisurely stroll throughout his territory under the calming silver light of the half-moon and stark diamond stars to cool his head. It had taken the arctic outlaw some months to get used to nights in the forest . . . how enclosed everything was, the lack of endless horizons and empty space. Now Kershov traveled as if his snowy form had been born of the woods. A scent marker here, a patch of claw-art there . . . what’s this? Barely there, so faint and delicate it might have been crafted from his black imagination was the light perfume of a dame on the air. Kershov paused and breathed deeply, banner twitching. A female stranger lurked by the nearest border, and she smelled of blood and secrets and sex. Delicious. Not one to keep the ladies waiting, Ker altered his path until he finally met the owner of that intoxicating scent.

She looked fatally gorgeous. Almost an evil version of Sil, if Sil had worn more blood in her fur and less flame. Not bothering to hide the appreciation in his calculating glance, Kershov casually took a seat before the maiden and inclined his royal crown in greeting, shorn side of his muzzle permanently smiling that demon’s grin. “A short howl goes a long way, Madame. If I had heard your voice I may have come sooner.” A low chuckle. “Give me your title and your reason for visiting Abendrot. Not that I currently revile your company, of course—this is strictly business.”