“Consequences are the only things that stop us from acting like beasts.”

Kershov had said that to his troupes a lifetime ago. The merciless gangleader had stood before the panting faces of his wolves and watched each and every minute twitch of uneasy emotion skitter across their visages like so many insects on a festering carcass, their tongues lolling and hackles raised as they wondered what harsh lesson their fearless leader was about to impart. One of their number lay bleeding and shaking at Kershov’s paws. The Alpha felt the deserter’s blood warming the tips of his toes. That same blood stained Ker’s lazily grinning muzzle. “Consciousness is a lie,” the arctic dragon continued smoothly. “Guilt is a waste. The only thing that should ever govern your decision is the possibility of consequence.” Here, fathomless onyx pools had glanced down at the pleading excuse for a soldier trembling in the dirt. “You did not think of your brothers when you deserted us.” Talons ground into the earth. “You didn’t worry about the hardship we’d have to face when your wretched self abandoned your duties. But you SHOULD have realized what punishment I’d bestow upon you the MOMENT you ran. Consequences, my dear soldier. Cause and effect.”

He hadn’t killed the offender that time. But he had broken one of his legs to remind him—and every wolf present—what it meant to treat loyalty lightly.

None of them ever doubted their Leader’s grim resolution after that. If only Saw Tooth had taken the time to teach its own wandering members the same kind of discipline . . .

After leaving Channing and her mate to struggle through the messy trials of birth, Kershov had wisely removed himself from the scene in favor of checking the state of his territory. He walked near dens and sunning spots, grinning to himself when a familiar perfume preceded him every time. Enigma. The best Beta any wolf could ask for. Suddenly in need of a confident, Ker altered his course to meet the snowy fae at the border. He had to hold back a half-frustrated growl when he noted another, unfamiliar scent lacing the air like a silver cobweb. A newcomer, at this time? Normally the ivory warrior would be starving to meet new meat, so to speak—but this time he had another pack’s folly on his paws. Tightness in his deep chest made breathing a chore. Please let this stranger be a benefit to Abendrot . . .

The newcomer was a study in grey, cold winter shades painted delicately over her petite form. Currently, the woman was on her spine, submitting to Enigma’s appraisal. Kershov perked his ears forward when he noticed the chilling intelligence behind the stranger’s ashen eyes. He just barely caught her name: C’leria. “What brings you to my pack, Madame C’leria?” asked the King—business as usual.