Kershov knew the brute before him hailed from Queens’ bloodline without even having to ask. The sooty soldier—Kaizer—oozed the confidence of his mother, Malignant’s queen, from every pore; despite his huge frame, the dark creature entered the scene with an effortless grace that told of harsh training and the inherited self-assurance of a prince. How many heirs were running around these sin-washed halls? Did Queens have a pup from every eager and important male she could sink her pretty little fangs into? When Kaizer made his snarky quip about Queens’ personal gentleman club, Kershov had to bark out an appreciative laugh. So Kaizer had the wit of a whip like his mother, as well. This conversation should be interesting, at least.

“I’m not proud of my folly, but I cannot say I regret it either. It is a pleasure to meet you, son of Queens. I lament that my arrival comes as a surprise, yet I have been unable to schedule a proper parlay as I would have liked. Forgive me.” Despite his carefully polite tone, allowing for the right amount of respect a prince was due, there could be no mistaking that behind his civil façade Ker would not leave empty handed tonight. A mission had driven him to this dark wood. He understood that he held no power here—this was literally not a pack under his jurisdiction and Kaizer needed only one other wolf to outnumber Kershov—but neither was the Czar simply a visiting cur. The alabaster gangster’s posture remained composed and relaxed; inwardly, he stretched his talons in anticipation of opposition. Though, judging by the sudden loss of amiability on Kazier’s face, his reason for coming had been sounded, Kershov stated his purpose anyway. His glacial black stare narrowed ever-so-slightly. “I am here to meet my pups.”

As if on cue, another huge knight pushed his way through a tangle of undergrowth to greet Kershov—carrying a squirming bundle of a pup in his jaws. Kershov guessed that this particular dragon was a ranked wolf in Malignant; he carried himself with blazing self-mastery and a deadly cunning, the kind of wolf who had murdered many times and thoroughly enjoyed it. But the child . . . Kershov instinctively knew that the unfamiliar lad struggling angrily in the black dog’s grip was his son, his blood, the union of Abendrot and Malignant Felicity forged into flesh. For a surreal moment Ker imagined that it was his own face stitched into the dark background of the pup’s fur—but that was just an odd splash of white on Kavik’s young face, a mask of bone. The rogue transporting the little prince dropped his passenger—Kavik—softly on the earth, where the callow thing froze in place. Kershov stared at his son speechlessly. He did not miss a single word Devil May Cry spoke.

“Kavik and . . . Kirastasia?” Of course Kershov knew the names of his litter—Queens had told him that much although she’d forbidden him from seeing either pup. Still . . . the arctic outlaw was used to siring children and then leaving them to their mothers. That was how things were generally done on his stretch of the tundra. He found it . . . odd to be interacting with his offspring. Not that Kavik seemed to want to interact at all. The espresso-hued heir was hunched in a tense, feral position by Devil’s large paws, his puppy hackles raised in a ridiculous display of fear and aggression as he beheld Kershov in shocking two-toned eyes. Was he a simpleton? An animalistic intelligence burned behind those ombre lanterns that took some of their shade from Kershov’s stargazers, so Kershov rejected the thought of his son being anything less than viciously smart; however, something was clearly off about Kavik, a cornered ferocity that had no place in wolves surrounded safely by their own kind. He felt . . . other.

The un-shredded half of Kershov’s muzzle pulled into a slight snarl. “Good to meet you, Devil May Cry. But what do you mean, doesn’t talk?” Devil hadn’t said “can’t,” not that this word choice meant anything. All the same, merciless arctic instincts roared to life within Kershov’s hollow chest, prepared to reject with blinding cruelty a child who was anything less that utterly perfect. He could not send a broken, mute cur to Saw Tooth, and not because he feared Saw Tooth would refuse to accept a flawed pup; no, Kershov would not take Kavik because he would feel to wretchedly ashamed of siring such a worthless pawn. “You had better make a sound for me, young Kavik. I am not a patient wolf.”