Part of Skrillex—and that part seemed to be most dominant, sitting like a hard-hearted tyrant on his back—wanted to just roll over and give up, stay sprawled helplessly on the ground like a wounded stag waiting for the deathblow. That would have been easier, right? Since when did surrender require any energy? He was practically dressed as a sacrifice, anyway: twigs tangled in his alabaster pelt and face anointed with the blood of a virgin . . . or, in this case, quite the opposite. Another pained, bitter laugh tumbled softly from Skrill’s tight mouth. Oh no—this lady had known what she was doing. She stoked his fire a little too well. She had used those gleaming knives of hers like a world class chef, utterly in command of each exquisite nip and tug, smoldering eyes slicing him up with those “come hither” glances. Gods, she had been delicious. No—literally delicious.

Come on, baby, just a little bit harder. I like it rough!

The seductive damsel hadn’t known who she’d been dancing with. You don’t give a crocodile a slab of meat and expect him to be gentle with it.

As Skrillex attempted to take another lurching step, pain pierced his shoulder blade and forced him to falter like a newborn fawn. His foreleg crumpled beneath him. A hurt hiss of breath scraped past his fangs. Damn it all! He needed a fast escape, otherwise he might have to interact with a pack wolf and then—

The distant sound of lush undergrowth bending beneath confidently traveling paws. A fresh ribbon of perfume strung sweetly in the air. Skrillex turned to stone, acidic dread scalding his guts and a panicked growl clawing at the raw inside of his throat. Guilt drowned his electric green eyes until he could have cried great, hot tears of it. Shit. He’d be caught. Found out. The pack wolf approaching him would surely know the hideous truth his nature, the horrendous breed of sin writhing in his very DNA as soon as she laid eyes on his pathetically shame-drenched fur. Then the pack would reign punishment upon him; they’d all fall on his hated body as a single tooth-armed force and drive him from the forest forever. Sensing inevitable doom, Skrillex tucked his would-be-handsome head disgracefully against his filthy chest; aching shoulders hunched inward; feathery banner hung limply behind hind legs that seemed frozen in place. He refused to turn and look at the face of the pack woman when she stalked proudly to the border’s edge—his mind’s eye had already fabricated her appearance. Skrillex knew she’d be standing tall as an Alphess should, since it was her imperial scent that hung strongest on the fragrant fronds of curling ferns and the gnarly bark of trees. She’d probably be appraising his lithe frame with calculating portals, sizing him up as a threat or an asset.

Her voice made him flinch. This creature sounded young to be a Ruler . . . but Skrillex wasn’t one to judge. After all, he’d only ever lived in one pack—and he’d fucked that up fairly early. “I was travelling . . . nowhere.” the black-masked bandits words dropped timidly to the earth between his forepaws. Had he been born in different circumstances—a different fucking body, perhaps, without his flaws and kinks—Skrillex might have grown to be a princely gentleman. Certainly his athletic frame was built for finer things that fighting, what with his lean muscles and long legs. He always spoke politely, if not with a degree of shyness and intense self-consciousness. Such a shame. Now he was a screwed up adult that ruined everything he ever touched. “I had no intention of intruding upon your borders. I’m sorry for the noise.”

If he didn’t turn to at least glance at her, the Lady might think him rude. Skrillex was willing to live with that, but who knew how these wolves reacted to breaches in etiquette? So far she hadn’t hounded him about the obvious bloodstains marring his ivory cloak; he at least owed her an up-front apology. Breathing a defeated sigh, Skrill turned body to face the Queen—

And stopped, blood turning to ice. Fur pale as sifted sugar. Downy pelt. Light kissing a smooth brow. He only saw her for a second—for less than a second—a heartbeat or a blink—but her likeness to the poor female he’d just murdered only minutes before shocked Skrillex to his core. His breath hitched, dragging raggedly from his lungs. He took a step backward, poisonous lanterns wide with unseeing shock. “I—you—how—” the robed monster stammered. Furious blinking, and eventually he was able to push the gory image from his mind long enough to note that this fae wore splashes of sweetest red on her face and paws, unlike that pristinely pallid fatale. As if that helped. The Alphess appeared as if she were dripping with her own blood. “I’m so sorry,” Skrillex repeated. “You . . . reminded me of somebody I knew. I won’t disturb you any longer.” He hastily turned to leave, only to have his complaining muscles viciously remind him why he hadn’t escaped in the first place.