The arrival of Marx strengthened Kershov’s already iron-strong resolution to sound the black ladies’ true intentions. When his Head Soldier flicked a meaningful grey-ash glance toward the Alpha, Ker rewarded him with a slight nod, as if giving a subtle yet significant order. In reality, all the empty exchange had done was provide the cunning silver soldier an excuse to join in on the fun; Ker wasn’t about to deny potential assistance, and the two Aurora wolves couldn’t know that this wasn’t standard Abendrot protocol. Yes, yes, dearies, we insist on providing all of our honored guests with two escorts. If only they could move this charade along faster . . . each time either Chenzii or Magic opened her pretty little maw to spout some asinine pleasantry Kershov felt his patience thinning like ice worn away by irritating claws. And thin ice was a very dangerous thing to tread . . .

The more confident lass—Magic—proffered a description of their “missing wolf” easily; Kershov was uncertain whether or not the plucky girl had carefully memorized her lines beforehand or if she had actually just illustrated the physicality of a real varg . . . not that either possibility mattered. The ruthless tundra Czar cared about this “Asher” character as much as he cared about the dirt under his massive paws, which was not at all. His muzzle still tensed, prepared to either snarl or sneer out a slicing accusation anyway. No such sorry creature had traveled near his borders—and certainly not past them, or the alabaster Alpha would have learned of it immediately. Cold anger gripped his jaws until they ached from the urge to bite the truth out of the shadowy she-wolf’s throat. What are you plotting? Why must you insist on wasting my time? Only Magic’s abrupt shift in posture—vague tension snapping into an almost blindingly bright, misplaced confidence—kept Kershov interested and not roaring for an answer. He could send her back home in an instant just by telling her that the outlaw she hunted wasn’t here. A mere underling would not dare argue with the Monarch of another pack . . . but then he’d squander an opportunity. Chenzii and Magic were marching gracefully over the scent line even as the King wrestled his own damnable frustration. A long, controlled breath slithered from Ker’s expansive lungs. Just watch them. They’re have already accepted their fate.

The ivory warrior had to silently applaud Marx for taking them into a game trail; Ker’s warped sense of humor found it quite appropriate, as he saw these Aurora ambassadors as potential prey. For a few quietly furious seconds, Kershov merely stalked behind the trio before him, fathomless oil-black stargazers never wavering from the two shade-born sheilas. He admitted—grudgingly—that their acting skills were acceptable; both girls sniffed vigilantly through the complex tapestry of forest scents as if truly searching for someone; their eyes, so similar in color and brilliance, flickered constantly down night-cloaked corridors and secretive tangles of undergrowth. Poor Chenzii seemed more on edge, tell-tale rigidness to her posture betraying whatever nervousness or mistrust threaded her veins. Magic, by contrast, nearly trotted through Abendrot. Was she that assured of her own lie, or had she somehow been sucked into her own delusion?

Despite his increasing desire to forcefully tear the hide off Magic while Chenzii watching in screaming horror, Kershov swallowed his dangerous impatience and crafted a silken sentence. “If I may inquire, what was Asher’s crime? It must have been heinous if you have kept up the hunt for so many months . . .” Unlike Marx, Kershov’s winter-woven lyrics lacked any sort of gentlemanly charm; the glacial gladiator worked in tight, businesslike syllables, constantly and diligently controlled so as not to allow even a shred of unwarranted intention to slip past. He might as well have been a speaking machine; none could fathom hidden thoughts from such bloodless dialogue. As he spoke, the Alpha minutely altered his path so that he could slyly steer the girls toward a more private spot. Here the woods coalesced into an intimate city of trees, foliage so thick and dark it seemed as if the forest were embracing them sensuously on either side. Moonlight was but a faint silver glow on the canopy. From here, if the ladies wanted to make a quick getaway, they would need to first plow through Marx and Kershov to reach a more open spot where sprinting was possible.

It was then that Kershov threw a signal to Marx—a piercing glance and a wave of his tail, a sign to spring the trap and strike their prey.

A lethal, liquid growl purred from Ker’s throat. His hackles spiked into a magnificent display of gleaming white needles. “Now my tolerance has reached its end. State your real purpose, Auroran wolves—or suffer death for the deliberate deception of an Alpha.”