The rain had left scars on Abendrot—but like any true warrior’s home the territory wore them proudly. Kershov’s brave soldiers had fought back against the flash flood’s starving path ferociously, their efforts still evident days after the emergency had taken place. The alabaster gangster was currently inspecting one such effort with wondering black eyes: a deep trench carved into the land about fifty yards from the river. His subjects had accomplished wonders; Ker could only marvel at the speed at which they must have created this small canyon, desperation to save the pack lending unspeakable strength and swiftness to their paws. Despite the torrential downpour erasing many of the harsh claw marks and haphazard paw prints, the Alpha could still make out the criss-crossing slashes in the drying mud . . .

Titles had been won that day. A grin graced the handsome side of Ker’s muzzle as he planned for the next pack meeting. Let the other kingdoms tremble in fear—they would never be able to underestimate Abendrot as a pack holding tenuously to life ever again.

Giving a magnificent shake of his immaculate ivory coat, the cold King stalked away from the trench site, large snowshoe paws carrying him nearly soundlessly over the lush forest floor. This season had been kind; prey ran rampant in the territory and practically tripped over itself to meet Kershov’s teeth. Distantly, the Czar toyed with the idea of a pack hunt . . . his warriors often chased prey in Abendrot in small groups or alone to sharpen their skills, yet as a whole the pack rarely left their borders to partake in a communal killing. It wasn’t so much their lack of unity as their overall possessive desire to occupy their land. Kershov had always felt wary about stepping outside his own borders, haunted by an old tundra paranoia. Once snow wolves acquired a specific territory, they stayed in that territory—or else a stronger band of outlaws would force them from it. You had to hold on to what was yours with fangs and talons prepared. Why make unnecessary trips from your own walls when meals were so plentiful within?

Kershov sighed, the sound as cool and soft as a winter breeze. He would consult Enigma and Marx on the matter. If they believed a pack hunt was in order, he’d rally the troups.

Speaking of Marx—

Ker captured the cologne of his High Commander and the perfume of a stranger on the wind simultaneously. The arctic dragon’s icy hackles lifted instinctually. He understood that the period of ungodly rainfall had snuffed out much of the scent line containing his land—but that was no excuse for a stupid, insolent trespasser to push their luck. As Kershov switched his gait into a brisk businesslike trot he noticed that the unknown female’s scent belonged to Saw Tooth. His heartbeat jumped into a faster tempo. Anger turned his blood into a frigid river inside him. What was this wolfess trying to pull? Had her own pack sent her to irritate him? Was she acting on her own?

The moment Kershov ripped through the tangled undergrowth to confront Marx and the femme, he realized his overemotional mistake. His merciless obsidian stare noted the woman’s painfully rounded belly as soon as his stubborn nose decoded what should have been obvious the first time he scented her. This pitiful fae was heavily pregnant and had foolishly decided to drop her young on his border. Perfect.

Trusting that his lead soldier knew what was going on, Kershov turned a trusting eye to the silver-clad Marx. The huge brute’s fur gleamed like chainmail beneath the shadow of leaves above him so that he truly appeared like a benevolent knight before the terrified femora. “I guess we’re keeping her?” Ker asked with light, cool sarcasm, knowing full well that this was the plan. It was what Kershov himself would have commanded if Marx had not arrived at the scene first; the uncanny talent of making the ideal decision had always stood out in Marx. “You had better follow my Commander,” the Emperor growled—not unkindly—to the panting lady. “No one here will harm you. Failing to trust my subjects and comply with their will shall be seen as a gross insult against my honor and Abendrot’s. Understood?” Kershov was mostly incapable of compassion or warmth, yet he spoke with a certain polite gentleness that could not possibly have been seen as aggressive—unless this unwise female was as out of her mind as the pale monster suspected.

In an urgent undertone to Marx: “I can foresee this ridiculous incident exploding out of proportion like that hateful confrontation with those Bright Moon imbeciles. I’ll go to Moth myself and tell her where her missing mother-to-be is.” Kershov did not under any circumstances want to give Saw Tooth a reason to come marching in on his kingdom. He knew what Abendrot would do if he discovered a pack harboring one of his wolves without an explanation . . . . he could at least alert Moth to the situation himself and avoid offending her or scaring her into reckless action. Sending one of his underlings was sure to look like an offhanded, uncaring apology, which was practically worse than not saying anything in the first place. “If the soldiers are well enough, have them remark the border after mommy dearest has found a place to birth her unfortunate little urchins. Wouldn’t want any other damsels in distress tangling themselves in our business, would we?”