His death-black eyes were still piercing holes in the silly cur’s muddled face when he heard a soft shush of grass bending under clever, careful paws. No new scent swished warningly into the tangled air—not immediately, anyway—yet Kershov knew in his alert killer’s mind that his little chat was being watched. Except . . . not merely watched: observed. He felt a stabbing sensation of razor-sharp vigilance sink past his dense white fur and into his too-tight skin, appraising, cataloguing, attempting to casually dissect every inch of him without drawing blood or attention. It was the painful, intimate, familiar feeling of a predator caught in the cutthroat sights of another predator. Kershov was not offended; he realized, despite the intense stare prodding oh so delicate across his frame with curious needlepoint fingers, that the unknown watcher wasn’t hunting him. That would have been an unforgiveable insult—the kind of insult that the merciless winter-breathing dragon instantly corrected with quick curved teeth very much used to murdering his own meals . . . and those that dared underestimate the unfathomable cruelty strenuously caged within the ice-carved prison of his demon’s soul. This wasn’t even an attempt at covert spying, because while Ker’s mysterious guest trod across the green-carpeted earth with the light step of a professional trained in dangerous dances Kershov knew he only needed to glance upward in order to see his audience’s face. Who are you? the alabaster gangster thought to himself. It took immense concentration in order to prevent his muscles from crawling or stiffening and thus betraying his awareness of the newcomer. Ah, well. If you came here for a show, I shall give you a show . . .

The silver female Kershov pinned beneath his paws dropped the nervousness tripping up her tongue and managed to answer the King rather placidly. His ears, rough at the edges where scars had sewn up trivial rips and tears, perked forward at the short list of names. Nice information . . . but practically useless when he had no means of matching names to ranks. Presumably the Alphess of Cold Summers was either Lolita or Pandora; if his own border patrols were anything to go by, the attention of one pack wolf on the fence usually drew the attentions of a Ruler. “Who are Pandora and Lolita? What do they look like?” Kershov’s elegantly curving talons contracted slowly, languidly over the girl’s fur, parting soft silver and gently scraping against the sweet pink of her flesh. “You’re not very good at giving information, Canada dear. Perhaps you do not understand what’s at stake here?” He narrowed those emotionless black mirrors. “Or maybe you simply don’t care . . .”

When the pallid lass spoke again, Ker had to concentrate hard in order to make sense of the hissing quality her voice adopted. This was harder than it sounds—for the immaculately snow-colored Emperor was still very much in tune with his audience’s presence. Finally his mind connected the fragments. He took Canada’s notice of the new wolfess as permission to look up, the demonic half-smile shredded over his face completing itself as bottomless onyx captured the silhouette of a mottled fatale sitting regally by herself. She was a lean creature, slim with dense muscle and robed in rich autumn hues. Her intelligence was sharper than a fresh blade even from this distance; it practically drew blood from Kershov’s brain as he evaluated her outward appearance. This creature had killed before—multiple times—but without madness. She was a professional, much like the other notorious assassins that once called Abendrot home. Something in Kershov ached to keep the new fae. His starving grin betrayed his resolution to add her to Abendrot’s ranks at any cost.

His had never been a pack to hold onto the talent it brushed with forever. So many promising faces had arrived only to sink back into the shadows once more. Ker did not like when his pawns left the playing field . . .

“You flatter me, Canada, but this duchess here is no subject of mine . . .” As if acting on a sudden gracious impulse, the glacial monster stepped off of Canada and backed away a step, allowing her to get to her paws if she so chose. “My underlings prefer to join me when I discipline fools.” All the while, the Alpha’s words lilted like the calm updrafts of a December breeze, stirring the snowflakes of his words into the air. He gave no indication of wanting to harm Canada again—other than a feral smirk directed her way. How lucky that poor sheila was! If Miss Mysterious hadn’t drawn Kershov’s attention and put him in this unusually benign mood, he might had torn her guts from her stomach in an attempt to stave off boredom; now Ker entertained the notion of letting Canada crawl off like the sick puppy she was without so much as a scratch. “You there!” the ice-carved beast called out to the lady mercenary. “May I inquire as to why you’re lurking around my borders and playing voyeur to my personal business?”