She felt cold as an early snow, her damask pelt cooled by the frosty morning dew so that it clung to her like wet grass. It made her sparkle, a robe of priceless crystal . . . but it stole her warmth. It sucked away the comfort and left behind an unfeeling chill. Vladya’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what her damp fur reminded him of. A corpse. A fresh cadaver, giving away the last of its heat to the greedy wind. That was just like Kobato—giving of herself beyond what was asked of her, beyond what anyone would deem enough, because she was Kobato, pure and selfless.

And foolish.

And broken.

She didn’t even blink while Vladya railed at her; the poor wolfess took his seething verbal abuse the way a mountain withstood a tempest’s thunderous fits. There was absolutely no sign that Vlad’s scathing words upset her—or even penetrated the thick pall of doom settled heavily in her mind. She was deaf. She was stone. When Vladya’s short tirade finally ended and he glared lightning at her, ivory sides heaving with each stormy, shuddering breath, an overwhelming assault of terror wrenched his insides loose and nearly turned them into pulp. For a razor-edged second, the tundra dragon had thought that Kobato was indeed dead, and he had just wasted half of his frenzied energy screaming at her lifeless body. It had been a fleeting, bullet-quick thought—she’s gone!—but it knocked Vladya breathless. It was as if a nightmare had momentarily trapped him within its icy talons. He had to claw his way back to reality. Upon resurfacing, the glacial warrior had to confront the only notion more frightening than the possibility of Kobato dying: why that possibility tormented him so much in the first place.

“Stop this shit right now.” Vladya lifted a forepaw—shaking shamefully as it rose to meet Kobato’s silken chin—and used it to prop the shattered girl’s lolling head up. His voice trembled as much as his paw. He covered it with a bottomless growl. Then, in a softer tone, as if the uncouth dog understood his voice could damage whatever frail fragments were left: “What the fuck is your problem, huh? This isn’t like you, kid. You’re acting like . . .”

A single word. Scratched out as if from a quiet rustle of paper. Vladya’s ears strained forward, hackles spiking impossibly higher along his rigid spine. “Help,” she’d said. Panic and despair welled up from the pit of his abdomen, so extreme Vlad wanted to vomit on the blood-splattered earth under his paws. Wasn’t that what he was already doing? What more could he do?! This wasn’t what the polar prince was used to; he had never been trained to deal with heartbreak or sorrow of this breed. He had never seen it. Outlaws didn’t cry. They didn’t sink into the abysmal depths of depression. They didn’t’ collapse on the ground, too exhausted by their trials to take another step. They didn’t do any of those things because they’d be dead, gone, erased from a world that would not tolerate their weakness. They all perished before Vladya even had the chance to see how a heart—a healthy heart untainted by hatred and not calloused by ruthless necessity—could break. And now Vlad was too twisted by his own past of tenacious survival to be of any use.

Kobato struggled for air. The growl thrumming in Vladya’s chest stretched into a thin, desolate keen. Was that his heart, slamming into his sternum? “Yeah, I know, you’re tired, I know you are kid, it’s pretty fucking obvious.” She still didn’t seem to comprehend. His voice punched his throat, crescendoing. “Calm down, dumbass. You’re breathing wrong. Just—just inhale, okay? You’re all right, kid, you’re okay . . . !”

Something unfathomably sad and desperate gripped Kobato then, her eyes locking onto Vladya’s own, pleading with him. Vladya saw the agony there, stripped bare as if someone had shorn away every layer of the girl’s soul. There was no hope there. Only a consuming wish for the end.

But if Kobato died . . . then something good in the world would be gone forever. That’s what Kobato was—goodness incarnate. Vlad understood that in his very core. And his entire soul screamed out in rebellion against her death.

The wail in his lyrics shredded back into a savage, ferocious snarl that shook the air. Defiance flamed in his golden lanterns. Tears—yes, fucking tears—poured down Vladya’s face like lava as he tried to save Kobato in the only way he knew how. His teeth were at her throat—gripping the fragile flesh—and he shook her, jostling her tired body where she lay. Then he forced her head against the earth, pinning her skull between his two forepaws so that she had no other choice but to gaze up into his righteously enraged visage. Vladya wore the mask of an avenging god. His fangs glinted dangerously. “You will NOT die!” the alabaster gangster decreed passionately. “You will LIVE because you are MINE, and NOTHING will ever harm you again because I WILL KILL IT BEFORE IT HAS THE CHANCE.” He licked the space betwixt her windows, hard enough to make the delicate fur of her forehead stand on end. One massive forepaw thumped heavily against Kobato’s breastbone and stayed there. The frantic heat of him burned away the chill clinging to her fur. His toes splayed across the space where her heart beat. “There,” he ground out. “I fixed it.”