Enormous bullets of rain pelted the forest with a staccato sound like heavy artillery; furious cumulous clouds churned across the sky in massive billows so black and thick an illusion of late evening had darkened the already shaded forests of Abendrot; water came from everywhere, puddles like miniature lakes spreading themselves over small dips and crevasses like silver tarps; once and a while a shattering CRACK erupted through the heavens as a many-forked bolt of lightning flickered out like the tongue of a great mythical serpent. This season had not been kind to Kershov’s territory . . . but as the massive polar poltergeist stood seething down at the tempest-drenched sight spread out below his kingly paws, the threat of yet another dangerous flood devouring half the kingdom was one of the less pressing matters on his enraged mind . . .

“Vladya.” He hissed the name like a curse, the syllables sizzling as the Alpha spoke through a ruined mouth wetted by torrents of rain. His long, curving talons bit viciously into the yielding mud beneath his enormous snowshoe paws. Standing out in the open, expansive back unprotected by the reaching arms of trees, Kershov should have felt each egg-sized globe of water hammer his skin as it dropped from the air; he did not. His flesh felt numb to everything except that glacial, all-consuming anger scorching his insides like a smoking chunk of dry ice.

The whole circumstance was just . . . unacceptable. That putrid bitch had robbed Kershov of HIS punching bag, HIS slave, and nearly destroyed the carefully cultivated self-control the gangleader prided himself on—all in one fell swoop. Thinking of the petite bird’s revoltingly proud eyes, the way she’d claimed Vladya as if she had some kind of right to him—a snarl shredded down the length of Kershov’s throat that rivaled thunder in its ferocity. He wanted them both dead. Or better—tortured so badly they wished for death, begging for it like the vermin they were as they writhed in pools of their own blood and choked under the agony of their twisted bones. But Ker had banished them . . . all for the sake of maintaining his sanity and the perfect veneer he’d constructed for the wolves he led. He let them escape his wrath! The colossal arctic Czar could not have felt more shame as a predator than if he had allowed prey to slip clumsily out of reach. His lungs heaved rhythmically, the steady breaths expanding his sleek sides as if they were the stretched sails of some haunted ghost ship. His chin still ached where Kobato’s skull had slammed into the underside of his imperial jaw. “DAMN them,” Kershov roared.

As if that weren't bad enough, his puppet Queen was absent, fighting for a pack that hadn't yet had a chance to acknowledge her power. A challenger at this time! It was disgraceful, disgusting, and if that arrogant bastard thought he could march back to Abendrot after harming a hair on Scarlet's immaculate pelt Kershov really would loose his grip on the last vestiges of sanity clinging to his cunning mind.

The alabaster monster threw his cranium back and unleashed a raw howl that shook the air.