The more this strange little animal spoke, the shorter Kershov’s already waning patience became. He stared at her until his eyes narrowed into furious pitch-black slits, fatal and merciless as a snake’s gaze. Her insults were stupid, of course—she lacked the wit or knowledge to form offenses that actually scored—but the pallid Alpha nevertheless found himself wanting to end her tirade of moronic chatter. Permanently. A ghost of a snarl twitched over Ker’s tattered muzzle; was it worth even attempting to give this lass a verbal thrashing? That oddness hadn’t left her eyes—if anything, it had worsened as she prattled at him. He doubted now that Canada could actually control what she was saying. What a pity . . .

“So what you are basically telling me is that submitting equals weakness? Strange: in every other facet of wolf culture it seems to be a sign of respect.” Why was he wasting his breath? Once Canada decided to flip onto her back, the glacial gladiator could only bark out a single, humorless laugh. Immediately his forepaws were smashed against her downy chest, pinning her where she lay. He shifted his impressive weight into the front half of his body so that there could be no easy escape. From this new vantage point, Kershov calmly gazed down at Canada with dark, merciless lanterns, as if trying to figure out the fastest way to gut her.

“You sick mut,” Ker muttered, tilting his head as he studied her. His voice was dry as a winter desert, devoid of anything except a vague detached curiosity. “What’s going on in that strange head of yours, hm?” Without warning, his muzzle was at her throat—but Kershov was only inhaling her scent, trying to decipher as much as he could from her tangled perfume. “You’ve been other places,” the Alpha commented. He was referring to the nearly dead traces of Cold Summers on her fur. She clearly didn’t belong to them—otherwise he would have known her loyalty without having to get this close—but she had traversed their borders fairly recently. Had she been innocently scouting for a home? Did she talk to any of their wolves? She must have been sent on her way: Kershov highly doubted anyone would willingly adopt this broken-minded thing. Perhaps he could use this toy a little longer, then. Even fleeting information might benefit Abendrot.

“Here’s how this works, Canada,” Kershov purred down at the fae. He spread his talons lazily along the soft flesh hidden underneath her pallid pelt. “I ask for information, and you give it to me . . . or I string you up by your intestines from the nearest tree. Who did you speak to at Cold Summers? Why were you sent away? Have the Alphas had their pups yet?”