Kershov’s ears swiveled backward as the femme fatale rose to her paws and answered him with a voice that matched the coldness in her slate grey eyes. He expected all recruits to come to Abendrot with intentions to benefit it—yet the way this lady spoke Ker could have sworn that she gave her answer as a dark promise, as if Abendrot were shivering in an unbreakable curse of weakness and despair and only she could break it. She spoke like a savior in the same way Death promises salvation. Kershov admired confidence in his wolves, but not like this . . . this almost seemed to him a challenge of his own power, an indirect condemnation of his resolve as a Ruler. Suspicious black eyes roamed the chilled planes of her pale irises. His calculating mind worked to peel back the layers of ice encasing her secrets. All the cunning Monarch could discern was a heartless intelligence—a sense of self-worth that had been ingrained deeply in the lady’s dark heart. She had been an Alphess once, Kershov could tell. Did she expect the same claim to power in his territory? Inviting her over the border might prove to be tantamount to asking a vampire into one’s home . . .

Enigma’s lyrics stroked the air the same way silk conceals a dagger—sumptuous smoothness over a deadly blade. Kershov wanted to smirk with appreciation at his trusted General’s show of flare; instead he attempted to maintain his mysterious visage, the only form of expression marring his face the demonic permanent grin shredded into the right half of his war-torn muzzle. It seemed as if his exposed fangs gleamed with mirth as the alabaster Alpha tilted his head, deciding to add his own words to the fray.

“I require many things in my army,” the King purred back, willing to play along with this dangerous little game. After all, he still held the crown—no matter how much this diminutive monster tried to unsettle him she would invariably fail. Beasts cannot scare other beasts: they can only provoke them. “Soldiers. Spies. Assassins. Ditch diggers.” There was something very different about a newcomer that arrived at Abendrot’s wall unsure of what place they should take, but eager nonetheless to find their niche and claim it with hard work and determination. C’leria did not appear to be one of those earnest-minded recruits; she apparently expected Kershov to offer her a place in his military on a platter, as if he already knew by looking at her regal bearing precisely where she belonged.

“I want to make something clear to you, Madame C’leria, because you are not stupid.” Kershov did not say this as an insult, despite the directness of his statement. He simply desired to abruptly slam past this frozen wall of decorum C’leria had constructed and rip through her royal pretensions. He’d had to slice his way down the tedious road of politics with Saw Tooth; now the Czar wanted nothing more than direct answers and frankness, no matter how hard that frankness might be to take. “I actually do not require anything. My pack is all that I need—the wolves who strive to protect this territory and who have pledged their loyalty are already more than this Kingdom requires. We have no weak spots. We have no shortcomings. Each addition to our numbers only makes us stronger.” He lifted his hackles, just a bit, just to show the lovely little dove that he meant every word he said. “Use that brilliant brain I know you have to tell me why I should allow you to enter my territory. Otherwise, darling, turn tail and flee.”