To say that Kershov felt joy when Venga admitted her own helplessness—admitted, furthermore, the current potential helplessness of her own pack—would have been a lie. The heartless tundra gangster did not experience joy—or at least, he did experience pure joy, untainted by the harsher venoms of cruelty. No . . . the closest thing to bright and glowing “joy” Kershov possessed was more akin to malicious satisfaction, a sensation that roiled deliciously in his gut and flared with brilliant flames of victory behind those fathomless black eyes. He peered down at the hopeless emptiness in Venga’s poorly matched gaze and nearly snarled with a wonderful realization of winning. Tamlin was gone, maybe dead—and now one of his precious little sniveling subjects was prostrated beneath Kershov’s hungry jaws, drowning in so much sadness it had flushed out all of her happiness and left a sodden river of desolation in its wake. Poor lonely, confused Venga. All alone. No one to save her.

How many times had Kershov fantasized of triumphing over Bright Moon? How many squirming, terror-stricken pieces of prey had he needlessly tormented and slain just to curb his desire to lash out at the pack he loathed most? Studying Venga’s forlorn face with the same dispassionate stare one gives to a crushed insect, the frigid dragga suddenly felt his heart contract with a burst of savage excitement. “Is that so?” A giant snow-treading paw gently touched the side of Venga’s head, as if to rouse her from a nightmare. Really all Ker wanted was to see the honey-toned fae wince. “Goodness Venga. So honest. I’m not so sure you want to live, after all.” He smiled at her, an expression no more friendly or kind than the serrated grin of a shark. If the wounded lass had been so desperately desolate as to willingly plunge herself into danger, then there must have been a suicidal motive, regardless of the fact that she failed to strike Kershov just a few seconds before. The ruthless Czar wanted to exploit that abysmal madness as much as he could. Savor it like fine wine. Use it to heal the lingering bitterness and rage scraping up the sides of his ribcage. In that moment, Venga was no more alive or valuable to him than a rat’s carcass. Just a toy . . . a very, very amusing toy.

“Or maybe you do want to live. After all, how can you be punished if you’re dead?” Another insidious chuckle crawled from the frost-breather’s throat, the sound textured with an abrasive growl—needles under a sheet of ice. That was the only logical explanation that Kershov could conceive of: that Venga felt so revoltingly guilty for Tamlin’s death that she sought utter destruction, punishment for her shortcomings. She wasn’t so different from Vladya in that respect; the beaten dog had returned to Abendrot with Kershov as a tattered puppet, accepting the tortures Ker inflicted with the silence of one who knew he deserved his fate. Very well, little Venga, I can punish you. The same heavy paw that had caressed the girl’s cheek with so much careful attention now trailed down her jaw, under her chin, toward the base of her throat. Paused at the hollow above her breastbone. Pressed down.

Not enough to strangle her—just enough pressure to make her breath rattle harshly down her trachea, enough to make her gag and panic with her pulse jumping under the pointed tips of his curved talons. Enough to make her scared. From this angle Kershov was truly able to admire the disparity between their coat colors. His was startlingly, blindingly white, without a single flaw; hers a pale honey-and-milk mix, so much silkier than the Emperor’s robes. Did she have a mate? She couldn’t . . . not this pitiful excuse for a wolfess. “I should let my assassins sharpen their fangs on you,” Kershov hissed poisonously, claws digging deeper. “I should let the soldiers bruise you so badly you can’t move. Did you know that there are places where wounds cannot be detected, Venga? Parts of your body where no one would ever know you’d been harmed?” Suddenly his hold was gone from her neck—only for the Alpha of Abendrot to suddenly rear up and slam both forepaws down on her fluffy chest, his nails scraping along her sternum and her vulnerable abdomen where they pushed with a force that would surely twist a cry from her trembling lips. Again, the lethal monster only utilized enough of his strength to hurt without ruining, drawing no blood, barely tearing out a hair while his claws traced ingenious trails of pain into the bird’s skin. Kershov was nothing if not calculating. And he had plenty of experience making wolves scream for mercy. One could prolong a victim’s life indefinitely, if the torture was careful enough . . .