Kershov saw with an unexpected flicker of delight that his challenger—rather than spitting in his ravaged face and limping away to lick her wounds—reluctantly accepted his offer. No growled demands. No false flattery. It was nearly too good to be true. Logically speaking, agreeing to accompany the winter warrior to Abendrot was the only smart choice; Ker had badly battered the silver she-wolf, all but crushing one of her forepaws and dislocating a shoulder. Such crippling wounds killed even clever, stealthy hunters when not treated. Wolves needed to move to survive, or else live with those that could move for them. Still . . . a reserve of cynicism had warned the cold Czar that the wolfess would snarl his half-mad offer down, and she hadn’t. Another victory. Another precious, precious victory. Winning felt very good, especially since that unforgivable loss so many months ago . . .

The recalcitrant glare of a puny female. An insult that cut so deeply his dead heart actually bled. Lucky the arctic dragga’s mind completely circumnavigated that shaded, wretched memory. Though revenge for Vladya’s robbery lurked forever in the roiling blackness of his mind, Kershov ruthlessly chose to focus on current matters. For instance, the richness of the soil under his massive paws as he stalked back from the battleground; the sharp cleanness of the air as he dragged it into his bruised lungs, gulping it in until he felt drunk with its intoxicating clarity; the bittersweet agony of torn flesh and drying blood, his body a wreck but his veins roaring with electricity as they processed those last dregs of adrenalin. Those were now. If he forced his vast, predatory thoughts to hone in on the present alone, if he could narrow his life down into the jagged torment of his lost eye and fractured cheekbone, then Kershov would wrestle the madness threatening to topple him to its prison. He’d be back in control. For good. Absolutely nothing could shake the recent victor’s confidence in himself, his overwhelming certainty that he was the same calculating, unfeeling creature he’d always been.

So . . . why did Kershov find himself looking for Scarlet Nights?

Heedless to the pawsteps behind him, Ker veered off toward the quieter parts of Abendrot as soon as he crossed into his territory. His ex-foe was not a stupid woman; she’d blaze her own trail through the kingdom and probably rest. Her well-being wasn’t precisely the most important thing on the Ice King’s brain. An undeniable instinct drove the polar dragon to seek his co-Ruler, his de-facto mate and poisonous puppet-turned-master. What did he want? Comfort? Validation? Kershov had never sought any kind of solace from another before. He wasn’t even sure if “solace” was the right term for what his primal self craved. Still the colossal monster paced as quickly as his damaged shoulder would allow, drawn to Scarlet’s sensuous scent as if it were a velvet leash tied about his throat. His heart, barely calmed from its urgent pace of war, began to hammer against his ribs again. The forest seemed to blur, the edges of branches transforming into gauzy webs as he peered ahead, but that might have just been Ker’s poor left eye, trying to compensate for the gruesome hole where the male’s right eye used to be. At last Kershov arrived at the end of the trail. His snowy hackles lifted—was that anxious anticipation? Or was his nervous system just shot from the fight?

“I’m home, dear.”