Though it clearly caused some discomfort to his apparently expansive pride, the grey-furred stranger submitted without complaint—a good sign that informed Kershov he’d prove an intelligent soldier during war time. Submitting in and of itself wasn’t supposed to be a humiliating experience, after all; it communicated simple trust and respect. The added flattery the newcomer—Grey Wind—offered was perfectly acceptable to the pale Alpha. This brute knew what he wanted out of a pack, and what he was willing to contribute. Grey Wind was no wandering fool who craved acceptance merely to end his pathetic loneliness. Inwardly, Kershov felt his reservations about the rough gentleman begin to slip away under a stronger curl of curiosity . . . which was lucky for Grey Wind, because that intense streak of intrigue prevented alabaster gangster from feeling even a shred of anger when the other male spoke of Marx’s soldiers.

Marx’s appalled humility delighted the frigid Czar. He did not say a word, yet behind the silver commander and so out of sight, Kershov’s meticulously watchful eyes widened in minute appreciation. There was no other varg Ker knew even remotely capable of following in Marx’s footsteps; the chrome dragon impressed his Emperor every single day with the nearly inspiration level of his dedication to the pack. In a way, the soldier faction of Kershov’s army was Marx’s; the powerful beast was connected more intimately to Abendrot’s fighters, since he was more often than not the one who delivered direct orders and invented new ways to keep the soldiers limber and prepared for battle. “No offense taken, Sir Grey Wind,” Ker answered graciously. Afterward, the massive moon-white monster held his tongue. The scene unfolding captured his attention and refused to let it wander. Things were becoming rather interesting . . .

Each line of his frame radiating tension and barely restrained aggression, the russet-streaked male pivoted to face Marx as the Head Soldier leapt over the border. Growls thundered in their throats and crashed together in the air, building in volume as they sized each other up. Kershov settled to his haunches; he’d act the referee for this battle, judging the outcome as he saw fit, tail flicking alertly beside him. Grey Wind waited for an opportune moment, instead of rushing in head first as Ker had expected him to. Admirable . . . he’s got a brain in that skull. Onyx portals widened in anticipation as Grey feinted to the right—only to swerve to the opposite direction and swing his hard-muscled shoulder toward Marx’s side. Grey Wind favored direct attacks masked under false pretenses: best for large males with the recruit’s build. A short laugh rolled from Kershov’s deep chest. How wonderfully amusing.