When Kershov saw Ivev leave the den, it required every last measly ounce of immaculate self-control not to pursue her into the forest and leave stripes of blood in her flesh. The infuriating healer struck a nerve inside Kershov that was raw and raging; the slightest touch of her defiant presence was enough to strike the Alpha nearly blind with anger. But his problem wasn’t Ivev, right now. It was the Saw Tooth family.

They crawled out of Enigma’s den with sleep-heavy lids and weary shoulders, all-too-ready to flinch at whatever Kershov decreed. Not even a flimsy speck of guilt marred the Alpha’s black heart when he saw this; he greatly enjoyed wielding power over others, especially those that did not necessarily belong to him. His own soldiers would obey his orders because they had sworn their loyalty—but these poor Saw Tooth wolves had no other choice. It brought a secretive, fleeting smile to his shredded muzzle, the expression fading in and out of existence so fast it might have only been a subtle twitch. That’s it . . . fear me. A delicious spike of satisfaction jumped in Kershov’s gut when Channing dipped her head respectfully in greeting. Henadin’s own direct eye contact displeased the King somewhat; however, he chose to condone it. He doubted the grey brute meant anything much by this otherwise insolent action, and so his pitch-dark portals merely blinked before settling once more on the mother’s tired visage.

“You are correct: it is the least you can do.” This was spoken in the same cool businesslike voice, void of all other inflection but chilled honesty. Kershov wanted to erase all shreds of confusion or mangled misplaced hope from the family’s minds; of course they would listen—Ker had fully expected them to and made it known that any other course of action from the Saw Tooth wolves would be seen as a hideously offensive digression in politics. No use having them think that any extra groveling or rapt attention would sway the frost-breathing Pharaoh from his decisions. That would be needlessly cruel. “Although I value your appreciation in my ‘hospitality,’ Lady Channing, I would actually much prefer if you spoke of that appreciation outside of my borders. Some packs seem to think that Abendrot warriors are trained to mindlessly kill any wolf that doesn’t wear our scent on their pelt . . .” Here he tilted his head pointedly, indicating the family. Kershov had not forgiven Saw Tooth’s embarrassing reaction to his little visit—a visit that could have ended badly for the King travelling without a guard. With any good luck, Channing and her mate would leave this place singing the praises of his noble kingdom. Then, perhaps, Abendrot’s reputation would flourish as an army run by diligent fighters—not a slobbering pack of feckless fiends.

Henadin’s words were met with a distant, yet still polite, dip of the cranium. “I cannot blame you for being protective,” Kershov growled graciously. Moth was treated rather differently. At the Saw Tooth Queen’s voice, Kershov gave a much deeper bow, obsidian stare never leaving her kind pools of melted chocolate. His ears flicked backward as she, too, mentioned being in his debt.

A long-suffering sigh dragged from Kershov’s lungs like a winter gale. He fixed Henadin again with bottomless eyes. “This is what I’m talking about—you outsiders have it branded in your brains that I am nothing more than a slave trader. Is that what you see me as? Do you think my mercy can be bought and sold?” Still not speaking above a formal conversational tone, still no snarl warping the scar-laced mask he wore. Only snow-soft, fatal calm. “You ask for my ‘price,’ as if I’m some sort of petty salesman. I don’t have a price. I have something better: a proposition.”

At this moment, the massive arctic monster folded himself gracefully into a seated position, plume stirring the grass behind him idly while his skull faced directly toward Moth, ears erect. “I propose, in the interest of continued good will between Abendrot and Saw Tooth, that you allow my pack to raise one of the children within our walls.” He waited for that to take effect. Behind the veneer of total control and neutral respect Kershov was grinning wickedly with triumph. How could they refuse? It was either let him have one of theirs alive . . . or every single pup dead as a lesson. “We would wait until the child was old enough to eat meat, obviously,” the alabaster Alpha continued reasonably, “before adopting them into Abendrot. Channing and Henadin would both be able to arrange meetings with their kin whenever they please. We would raise the pup as one of our own—they’d be treated no differently than any one of my valued soldiers.” Kershov said this in case the family thought he was asking them to give him a free child slave. That was not his intention at all; the Czar honestly wanted to bring up a youngling in the Abendrot tradition and have him or her act as a liaison between packs. “And, because I am a good King, I will allow the parents to choose which of your pups will have the honor of training in the Abendrot military . . .”

Inwardly, invisible to everyone present, Kershov was smirking like a tiger about to feast. His snowflake words were crafted with utmost care and gentleness . . . but he knew how much it would tear mommy and daddy apart to look at their babies and decide which one would be lost to them forever.