For an allegedly amoral wolf, for a frozen-hearted warrior with no concept of “honor” or “fairness,” with no code of ethics to live by or sense of compassion to temper his actions, Kershov prided himself on not being a mad wolf. He was not one of those slavering beasts that lived solely to pillage and rape; he didn’t murder without reason or cunning forethought; even the torture he thrashed upon those that angered him held a purpose. He considered himself worlds above those filthy wastes of air and space. He was a paragon of wolves who never squandered his energy. And yet . . . to watch Venga cringe in agony at each finely honed hiss of cruelty that slipped dagger-like from Kershov’s silver tongue could be nothing but a useless game. Verbally shredding the poor creature brought no advantage to the arctic Czar. He tormented her simply for the pleasure of seeing pain bruise her mismatched eyes. It was so, so satisfying to take the hurt clawing at his insides and thrust it at another with no more motive than the sheer desire to harm. A heartless, sick smile sliced up the handsome half of Kershov’s ravaged muzzle, completing the demon’s grin etched forever into his visage. That’s right, Venga. Curl up like the pitiful insect you are. The tightness in her face was poetry. He could read each line of aching sadness in couplets across her tense tawny brow. He wanted her to crumple like wet paper in the gutter.

And then—she lunged. Kershov flinched away purely by reflex, legs drawing back and cranium dipping downward to protect his vital throat. A savage snarl shredded through his throat—louder than a dragon’s roar—and a killing light flared behind those bottomless black pools. Jaws parted. Teeth glittered. Talons dug into the earth, preparing to launch Ker forward to meet Venga’s attack. He would eat the life out of her, just as she deserved, just as she so clearly wanted. But—just as the alabaster Alpha was about to plunge his fangs into her neck, Venga veered away and threw herself to the earth, sobs shuddering down her pale body. She writhed against the dew-wet grass as if she meant to bury herself and all her heavy agony six feet under. Kershov’s eyes widened in shock. He honestly thought she meant to attack him. Where had that tiny sliver of manic frustration gone?

She gasped as if she were drowning, as if the damp air around her was too thick to breathe. The glacial gladiator’s spiked hackles were lowering by increments as he observed her pitiful state. When Venga finally managed to speak, the sound strangled and desperate as it clutched at her lips, Kershov had to bite down a growl of delight. How he missed the sound of wolves begging at his feet . . . “Help you, Venga?” the massive moon-white monster murmured, tones adopting that poisonously sensuous note. Almost curiously, Ker’s head tilted, the action unnervingly slow and avian—a bird of prey deciding the best angle to decapitate its victim. “Help you do what, exactly? Make a fool of yourself in front of another pack? Your enemy pack, no less? My dear, you’re doing just fine on your own.” A deep, dark chuckle curled from between sparkling daggers like a curl of frost. Kershov stepped quietly forward, lowering his cranium to whisper venomous nothings into Venga’s vulnerable ears. “I could destroy you, you know. Attempted assault of a pack wolf is bad enough, but a Regal . . . my, my, my Madame Venga, what a very lovely mess you’ve thrown yourself at.”

His lower canines dragged languidly over the silken base of one triangular ear. For a polar poltergeist, his breath was strangely warm. “Is it because you lack someone to throw yourself to?”

Abruptly, Kershov’s teeth grasped the meaty part of Venga’s shoulder, where her left foreleg met her downy chest; wordlessly he tugged her onto her spine, heedless to whatever damage his curved knives might do to the sweet flesh under her fur. Once he had her prone beneath him, the colossal bleached beast shoved a huge forepaw under the lady’s chin; he forced her jaw upward and out of his way, exposing the toffee-dusted fur of her throat. At this point, the frigid phantom could easily have done what he’d instinctively wanted to do the second Venga dared leap at him—but instead, he merely pressed his nose into the sleek canvas of her neck and inhaled deeply. A complex bouquet of scents ran rampant in his mind. Among them, Tamlin’s was the weakest . . . nearly nonexistent . . . and that gave Ker the confirmation he needed. Tamlin was gone. He lifted his gaze to pierce through Venga’s mismatched windows. His voice shook with a sinister whisper. “Who on earth is protecting you now?”