He appreciated her respect, the way her cranium lowered in polite but careful deference and the wisely impassive expression of her savagely pretty face. Some had come to his borders hoping to prove themselves through recklessness, outright challenging the Alpha’s authority as if proving that they were unable to take orders would somehow propel them up the ranks. Fools. Kershov was something of a traditional wolf; he liked his subjects to act like subjects—and in return, he would be the very best Ruler he could possibly be to them. A King they could rely on and trust with their lives, because he would never throw away his recruits with wanton intentions. They were his precious, necessary pawns. His property to guard and lead. The ivory warrior was capable of “fairness” when subalterns earned it . . . but the very first test of a good recruit was always conduct at the territory’s edge. And so far, this dame was passing with flying colors.

Kershov could tell that she was choosing her words vigilantly. Before the vixen even spoke, his mind was turning over all the possibilities she presented. Would this one be a cunning soldier, or was the more secretive life of an assassin suited to her talents? Perhaps she was a spy, clever and fully capable to caring for herself no matter the situation . . . but not a healer. Surely not. Her being radiated beautiful aggression—not a trace of a healer’s inner tranquility tainted this one’s capacity for violence.

“I take it you’re not a soft wolf, Lady Aerten,” Kershov finally replied, voice coldly humorous. “You are right: Abendrot is not a pack forged on friendships. I don’t condemn the practice, of course, but I’ve never personally found such alliances worthwhile.” Here, the arctic dragon paused. The wolf closest to him was his Beta, Enigma . . . but he had not seen her around the territory for a while. Could she be considered a “friend”? Probably not . . . their relationship was incredibly professional, without the emotional complications Kershov associated with the frivolous ties of camaraderie.

“Your values sound very tundra appropriate. I like the way you think, Lady Aerten.” Ker rose from seated position and stood at his full height, crown held regally aloft and banner flying in the position of alphaship. Casually, without any forewarning, the alabaster gangster stepped from his side of the invisible wall and began to circle the russet-splashed vixen, idly wondering if he could tempt a thread of nervousness or confusion from her stony façade. So far she had held her ground admirably. He didn’t expect her to bolt at the last minute. “Where do you see yourself in the army, Madame? Do you enjoy killing, or are you more concerned with the general betterment of Abendrot? Either goal is appropriate, as long as you won’t harm my pack.” The glacial gladiator did not touch the femme fatale as he stalked around her, frigid pelt inches away from her own. Finally, he stopped so that they were facing the same direction, parallel to one another, his maw by her ear. Her final test. “It has been a while since someone like you stopped by the border. You could be great, Aerten.” A sudden snarl ripped the liquid lilt from Kershov’s winter voice. “Now submit.”