He wondered if they had tried to disfigure Verity as an insult directed at Kershov’s own savaged visage. The velveteen curtains of her maw were tattered and torn, cuts like red spider webs laced luridly over her lips in ways that Ker knew she’d probably end up with scars. Such markings weren’t repugnant to the warlord—he admired scars on females. These wounds would one day prove that Verity was a survivor; they’d remind the shaken lass every time she saw her reflection, every time a wolf glanced at that once-innocent face and dared to assume she was weak. With a carefulness that would have shocked onlookers, the pale dragon lifted his muzzle from the bird’s neck and began cleaning her snout with soft, careful strokes of his tongue. Each swipe erased a little more scarlet from the snow of her face. It might sting those sensitive scrapes, yet keeping these injuries clear of infection seemed more important to Kershov—and he doubted Verity was in any state to tend to her wounds herself.

Fear made Verity’s heartbeat spike. Sensing her renewed terror, Kershov resumed his embrace and tucked the pallid girl’s skull under his chin. A brute with a torn mouth . . . there are quite a few of those. I must have run into him before if he wants me to know he’s “back,” but he’s not of my generation. A recent foe? The war? He didn’t even flinch when Verity leaned away to hack a blob of bloodied saliva into the ground. The alabaster Alpha’s calculating mind churned relentlessly past endless possibilities, trimming away those that made no sense and scrutinizing those that stood out. Plenty of younger wolves had joined ranks during that last Great War to drive Ker and his gang from their territory—which of them assumed Ker remembered them personally? He could seize only a few names from his steel-trap memory . . . and all of them were precisely the kind of wretched dogs that would harm a creature as harmless as Verity. Their number didn’t signify much; wolves came and went in loose-formed gangs, so the perps might have come from different armies entirely.

“Thank you for the descriptions. You’re doing beautifully, Verity.” Kershov graciously praised the trembling lass, encouraging her to shed the shell of horror they’d encased her in. “I am so proud of you.”

Then his tongue was at her face again, nearly caressing, cleansing away the last stains of blood. He patiently allowed her to finish, his ears perked alertly the entire time. Then—something clicked. Kershov saw the offender’s face vividly in his mind: the demonically icy eyes and arrogant expression, laughing as he sent wolves to their deaths. Arbon. He’d been one of the most reckless—and dangerous—commanders on the battlefield where Ker’s gang had been pushed toward decimation. He had no sense of preservation, no inkling of loyalty or purpose. He lived to harm. It did not surprise the ivory Czar that this foe had wrought such pain upon young Verity—it fit his personality flawlessly.

A grim, low rumble purred from the back of Ker’s throat. When he spoke next, his teeth pressed softly into the space between his pawn’s ears, voice murmuring into her feathery fur. The seed had been sewn; now Kershov had to build Verity back up lest she crumble under the weight of her blunder completely. “Your heart is large, my sweet. No one outside of Abendrot deserves your time or your kindness. I believe I know the name of the one who committed this . . . crime, and he is a master of deception. You could not have foresaw the evils he plotted.” Kershov was grinning now—and it was not a mask of happiness. The look was utterly devoid of mercy and mirrored the serrated grin of a shark before it tears its prey to ribbons. “Just as they cannot foresee the glorious revenge they’ve brought upon themselves.”