Kershov opened his slanted, alien eyes to the sight of a sky studded with the diamond-bright glitter of a million stars. The heavens were painted a fathomless velvet black, identical to the uncannily dark shade of the Alpha’s irises. The gibbous moon gilded the forest canopy in a frosted layer of pearl. When Kershov breathed in, the action languid and deep, a harmony of mouthwatering night-scents pooled into his lungs and sparked his predator blood with electricity. He’d waited long enough. Time to make demands.

For the past twenty-four hours, the frigid Pharaoh had kept well away from the site of Channing’s birth-den as a sign of goodwill and respect. Although this was his kingdom, Ker wanted to make it clear to the Saw Tooth wolves that he felt as if he had no place interfering in a ritual so intimate; he “humbly” gave them privacy. If they were smarter than Ker gave them credit for, they would appreciate his gesture of trust. After all—it had taken an enormous effort to prevent himself from quietly spying on the outskirts of the designated birthing area, just to guarantee nobody had attempted to take a reckless bite out of his own soldiers . . . or the other way around. Remembering the fearful way he’d been greeted at the Saw Tooth border, Kershov huffed out a haughty breath. Gods—if they’d been that cowardly on their own territory, he could only imagine how badly they’d react if the Snow King himself were present at the birth . . .

Grunting with the effort, Kershov rolled gracefully to all fours and lowered his upper half to the earth in a wondrous stretch. Foreclaws splayed as tendons and sinews snapped and strained, each vertebrae giving a delicious pop as the Alpha relaxed. Once limber, he turned his imperial skull toward the direction of Enigma’s den. Had Kershov not given a shit whether or not Saw Tooth left on good terms, his voice would have soared over the shaded treetops in a demand for them to flee as fast as their legs could carry them. He would have stood at the entrance of Channing’s nursery with a feral grin glittering in his face and hackles raised. Every terrifying, heartless action would have been perfected to frighten the Saw Tooth wolves into the darkest cores of their very souls and force them to rethink ever taking Abendrot’s hospitality in vein . . . except that was not Ker’s current goal. His plans were quite different. When he padded soundlessly from his sleeping place, the icy Czar’s mask was carefully neutral. He’d go to them and start the conversation from there.

The family was still huddled in the den when Kershov extricated his massive ghost-pale form from the shadows. He shook his coat slightly, each pallid hair tipped in starlight. Marx and Enigma were nowhere to be seen; most likely the pair had trotted off to enjoy each other’s company until their Ruler called them back. One wolf’s scent gave Ker pause . . . Ivev had returned—that infuriating vixen with a personality so cold even Kershov felt chills trying to talk to her. He did not appreciate the ice she encased herself in; it made interacting with her nearly impossible, like trying to shout at somebody past the thick blue walls of a glacier. Why had she chosen to return? What had drawn her back to these dark hallways and hiding places, when Ivev had so blatantly admitted that Abendrot wasn’t her home? Kershov ground his impressive teeth as he thought about her—and caught himself. No . . . Ivev was not his current problem. He could deal with the deserter healer whenever he wanted; now was the time to orchestrate a deal with Saw Tooth. The immaculately white King needed all of his cunning concentration to ensure this contract worked out in Abendrot’s favor . . .

“Saw Tooth wolves,” Kershov called out in a soft, authoritative voice, his tone no louder than what he’d use for talking to somebody face-to-face. “I would like to speak with you.” This—of course—meant that Kershov would speak with them . . . whether the family wanted to or not.