Her thin yelps of pain were music to Kershov, exquisite little bursts of pathetically restrained agony yanked from her maw like bloodstained teeth. The snow-walking sadist had hoped for a more vocal response, yet somehow this laughable show tasted even sweeter. That beautiful thrill of the hunt sang in his veins. His savage, calculating eyes—pools of shadow that missed nothing and witnessed everything—noticed and relished the effort Venga scrounged from her soul not to scream, how very hard she tried to master her own panic, her own body’s sense of doom and torment, but it was all for naught. Her willpower fought behind her mask of fear, but like a prisoner in an iron cage could not escape this hopeless reality. She shuddered at his mercy. And Kershov had no mercy.

At Venga’s harsh cry, Kershov dug his talons deeper into the soft vulnerable flesh of her abdomen, threatening to pierce her skin. “Oh, dearest Venga . . .” An unholy grin carved his face nearly in two—serrated fangs slashed up either side, scars like thick spider webs and splintering glass, eyes so deep and dark they might as well have been hollow pits in a skull: the very visage of Death itself. His laughter was a seismic thing that resonated from the place where his heart should rest. “I intend to.”

He lunged forward—giant paws thudding to one side of her body—cranium snaking toward her neck—and his lethal jaws snapped shut on the loose suede on her nape. Without hesitating the colossal dragga flexed those rock-hard muscles—shoulders bunching and tensing as if pythons writhed beneath his skin—and wrenched, attempting hurl Venga until she scraped against the dirt on her stomach once again. Once Kershov was satisfied with the broken girl’s position—hopefully battered and crouched on the ground, warm caramel-painted spine in full view—he stalked toward her, white banner flying high. The terrifying smile had vanished; blank, ruthless intention hardened Ker’s glare into one of pure onyx. His steps were purposeful and utterly unhurried . . . the tread of a conqueror sure of his plunder.

He circled around behind Venga.

Snapped at the space above the base of her tail so that his teeth slammed with an audible click.

And threw the entirety of his weight upon her back.

The vicious Czar’s sturdy legs formed a jail of four bars about Venga’s prone form. Not a sound crept past his vocal cords. He was terribly, chillingly quiet. At last his muzzle found one of his prisoner’s ears; when Ker spoke, it was with a voice of distilled winter cold, frost sharpening his words into deadly points of ice he wanted to grind into Venga’s soul. “Is this what you meant, puppet mine?” Of course, the Bright Moon warrioress could not know what insidious thoughts unfurled in the Alpha of Abendrot’s mind. In truth, Kershov had not the slightest intentions of doing what depraved males normally defaulted to in this situation—not because he lacked any amount of cruelty necessary for the crime, but because the arctic dragon had never entertained such desires. Of all the atrocities Kershov had ever committed, rape was not one of them. His cunning mind—however ferocious his sense of dominance—reviled the thought of taking a femme by force when he could just as easily seduce another.

But Venga could not be privy to his thought process. And Kershov craved to exploit that visceral dread to its fullest.