Kershov’s bottomless eyes widened at the unexpected reaction of the wolfess. Her silvery frame darted up a low, diagonal-growing tree as if she were a lynx, one of her forepaws swiping outward with claws stretched. Even her posture was feline: an arched back with bristling fur that would hardly be considered a wolfish pose. Was she mad? Or perhaps just very, very eccentric? Either way, nobody had bothered to teach this creature proper manners. Ker expected total compliance—even if he happened to terrify those he wanted compliance from. The girl even had the audacity to growl at him!

Now mildly annoyed, Kershov threw his ears forward and allowed a low, threatening rumble to thunder from his chest. The sound was practically seismic, trembling in the cool air like the bellows of an earthquake. It was a warning sound, a show of power—not necessarily a growl that promised death. Ker was simply telling the frosty lass that she had better get a hold of herself before his patience wore too thin.

“What is the meaning of this, girl?” the Alpha’s voice throbbed with authority. He took another step closer, demonstrating his resolve to punish her if she did not stop her foolishness. Then . . . he saw it. A wrongness in her gaze. Kershov was an unnervingly perceptive wolf; his intelligence was like a scalpel carefully carving into every hidden aspect of those he observed. This fae . . . was not right. Her eyes shimmered with a feverish light that burned with fear and anger and confusion. It was as if she were caught in the twilight of a waking nightmare. Ker tilted his imperial skull, suddenly very intrigued. Was she looking at him? Really, truly looking at him? It seemed like her gaze found trouble in pinning his exact shape, like she was staring at the filmy silhouette of a ghost.

Before Kershov could act on this possibility—before he could test his theory—the pale female leapt from her perch. She kept her face carefully composed. Too composed. Still wrong.

“Miss Canada.” Abendrot’s Czar tasted the name on his tongue. His voice was as soft as winter snow—and just as cold. A special kind of cruelty glinted behind his onyx eyes as he appraised her. “I said on your back, not your feet. Submit properly before I flip you onto your spine myself.”