Skrillex swallowed and nearly choked on the yelp that tried to break from his maw when the Queen blocked his exit. As if to ensure himself that he wasn’t completely crazy, he glanced back at the invisible border which marked her home—and saw that, yes indeed, the beautiful woman had crossed over the line in order to prevent him from leaving. Seriously? Who does that? If Skrill hadn’t watched the lithe lady march herself away from her territory and practically clothesline him as he attempted to escape with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. It took all of the gentleman’s self-control not to nudge the Ruler’s pale shoulder with a curious nose to test whether or not she’d suddenly disintegrate into a veil of gauzy smoke. Terror collapsed into breathless shock. “A-answers?” Skrillex finally stammered. He wasn’t able to spew any more useless drivel—the Alphess continued speaking, her voice imperious and edged with an elegant growl that textured her voice like beading on a fine bolt of silk.

His ears pinned themselves against his skull, betraying the turmoil roaring beneath the surface of his carefully constructed calm. He tried not to see his latest victim in the paleness of her red-painted fur, in the aesthetic loveliness of her royal face. Instead, Skrillex forced his wary poison-colored windows to note everything about this woman objectively. Her face is rounder, fuller . . . not as much like a vixen. The shape of her muzzle is different. She has contrasting eyes—

Here Skrillex had to take a mental pause, brain short circuiting when the Monarch threatened to push him over her borders and kill him.

What she demanded made his stomach harden into a stone and plummet toward the center of the earth at a hundred miles an hour.

She asked too much of him.

And the horror of his life was still too fresh for him to comply.

Thank the gods for lying, right?

“My name is Soron,” rasped the white knight. He cleared his throat with about as much finesse as somebody who has shoved down a mouthful of gravel. “Soron” was a common name among the wolves of his homeland; nobody here would connect it to Skrillex’s filthy sin. Any wolf that might remember what Skrillex had done a year ago would surely hunt him down if news of his presence passed through the forest—but if the Queen gave any passersby the fake moniker his trail would die. Skrillex would be safe. Protecting his identity even in this meager way had the knot twisting within the beast’s chest loosen just a little. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you who I mistook you for. I . . . I didn’t know her that well.” That technically wasn’t a lie: Skrillex couldn’t remember his victim bothering to take the time to lend him her title, even though he did as for it. So much for trying to be a polite chap . . . not that knowing the lady’s name would have changed the ultimate outcome.

Skrillex shuddered, the delicate motion crawling from the base of his tail and up his ink-slashed spine. Why hadn’t the Alphess questioned him about the damn blood? She KNEW it wasn’t his—he had seen those intriguing mismatched lanterns graze curiously over the dirt-caked stains with the same offhanded interest one gives to a flower bending in the opposite direction from its sisters!

“Why, may I ask, is it so important to you? Isn’t threatening an outsider who is no threat to you sort of . . .” dry, weary humor crept into Skrillex’s nervous voice, allowing a glimpse of the brilliant personality crippled by doubts and unwanted flaws. He quirked his own brow, mirroring the Czarina. “. . . rude?”

Not wishing to press his luck—of which he had absolutely none, unless shitty luck counts—the lean dragon opted to shut his trap after that little quip. He closed his outrageously green pools as if regretting his potentially uncouth retort . . . and then swiftly swung his weight to the side, planning to dart around the Alphess and slink as fast as he could away from her kingdom. The Ruler might break etiquette to confront him within a few yards of her kingdom—yet he sincerely doubted she’d go so far as to pursue him a mile away from her border.

Skrillex made it precisely one step before his pain tackled him from the side and wrenched control from his limbs. Letting out a startled cry, the outlaw stumbled gracelessly into the Queen, his shoulder hitting hers as his forelegs crumpled—unable to hold his weight—and an eloquent shout of “Fuck!” left his tongue.