She didn’t cringe away at his scrutiny—a good sign. Plenty of otherwise promising recruits had twitched and panted under the cold Alpha’s judgment, so frantically desperate to make a good impression that the mere thought of a hair being out of place tormented them. It was all well and good to want to seem worthy, but to be that anxious? Those poor perfectionists were the sort of wolves who were killed early on the battlefield, their throats removed from their bodies while they fretted about how well they’d mastered “proper techniques.” They couldn’t take notes, and their own sense of urgent competition often set them at odds with their packmates. They were bad soldiers. Not Miss Aerten, though. Her slightly rough voice answered him promptly and without a single quaver. Her flame-colored eyes never flickered. She was all business. Totally professional.

Hmm . . . so this warrioress was multitalented. Abendrot’s system may have seemed rigid to outsiders—and, in a sense, it was—but that did not mean Kershov rejected the idea of having fluid ranks. His pack didn’t operate on a caste system; soldiers could spy, spies could fight, and assassins often filled any gaps that opened up when necessary. Aerten’s professed flexibility definitely piqued Ker’s interest. The foreboding ghost also noticed that this russet femme never wasted her breath on superfluous words—yet another winning quality. Had Kershov believed in good fortune, he would have howled his thanks to the skies, for Aerten might as well have been sent from heaven. She exemplified every trait he searched for in wolves joining the Abendrot Army. His ebony gaze betrayed nothing, and the frosted Pharaoh silently coveted Aerten nevertheless. She was presenting him with a finely crafted tool—herself—and it required each and every ounce of self-discipline and decorum Kershov possessed to not snatch her up instantly.

And when the Alpha suddenly ordered her to submit, she did—no stammering questions or rude refusals, as quickly and efficiently as any military dog Kershov had ever seen. Abendrot needs this one—nobody else may have her. With new recruits few and far between and more wolves deserting or disappearing every day, Kershov understood what grave consequences his pack would endure without this she-gladiator backing the ranks.

Fathomless eyes as black as midnight scanned Aerten’s prone form. Submitting failed to dull her obvious strength; her exposed abdomen was sleek with muscle, protected by toned forelegs crossed over her chest. An abrupt, deliciously risky possibility slithered into Kershov’s cunning mind. Aerten could not have known how urgently Abendrot required her services . . . so he would make loyalty worth her while. Clearly, Aerten portrayed proper pack etiquette. Why not reward her, and hopefully cement her dedication in the process? “Rise, Lady Aerten. I have a proposition for you . . . if you shall be gracious enough to follow me past the border.”