Kershov sensed the instant his plaything finally broke as clearly as if he’d heard glass shatter. A silent, triumphant surge of power roared in his broad chest, twin obsidian pools smoldering with the thrill of conquest. His half-grinning muzzle parted in a full-tooth smile, wide and sated. There was a certain vicious pleasure in dominating someone completely. Most wolves would never know the feeling, the way it detonated a thrilling rush of absolute satisfaction, the almost giddy sensation of being nearly godlike. Perhaps this cruel hunger was what set Kershov apart from other Alphas—after all, no Monarch seemed to be feared as much as the King of Abendrot. He watched over and protected his property with the relentless ferocity of a dragon, but his pack was an army, not a family, and Ker acted as Commander before he acted as confidante. Was that wrong? Unorthodox? Who cared?

No doubt had marred Kershov’s thoughts on the possibility of simply keeping Venga. He would have been perfectly pleased to torment the poor girl and send her on her miserable way before, but now was the ideal moment to seize advantage over Venga’s present state and lock her in Abendrot forever. As showcased by his careful torture, Kershov was nothing if not calculating; this dance of manipulation must be choreographed flawlessly if he still wanted a useful recruit by the end of this session, or else the monster risked damaging his toy irreparably. Broken wolves were entertaining, yet useless. Kershov had no time for ineffective pawns. Rather than lingering over the honeyed fae in fake contemplation of an atrocious act, Ker abruptly walked away, abandoning Venga where she sprawled. His utter disinterest served as a stark contrast to the careful attention he’d paid her before, as though she not only had lost his concentration but no longer existed. He planned to keep her tender mind constantly on the brink, each vigilant change of pace a figurative slap in the face. Kershov had programmed little Verity in a similar way, first strengthening her fear of the outside world and then switching those sinister tactics into gentle, welcoming ones. Venga needed to realize that Kershov decided her worth, and no one else. Nobody would ever care for her the way her new Czar would.

A nonchalant yawn stretched easily from the white dragon’s ragged maw. He lowered himself into a causal seated position, every last trace of aggression and malevolence vanished from his appearance. After a while he slipped his calm onyx gaze toward the pitiful creature languishing in the dirt, tilting his head as though he felt vaguely sorry for her misfortune. “I imagine you don’t feel all that wonderful, do you Venga?” The question was soft as snow, carrying a slight conversational lilt. He draped his feathery banner over his forepaws, signaling no intention of harm. “I know you think me evil. Most wolves do . . . although I can’t say I discourage such a reputation. It’s only because of fear—and wolves only feel fear when they’re threatened.” Ice-pale hackles lifted slightly; however, Kershov made no move to get closer to Venga. He would allow her space, treating her with the same understanding as one of his own soldiers. “If you were one of mine, no wolf on this earth could make you feel the way you feel now. You’ve been weakened, Venga, and frankly, I pity you.”

He let that sink in for a few moments. If things played out the way Ker hoped, the bruised femme would be susceptible to such subtle innuendos. Let her think of how Tamlin has failed to make her strong. Let her think how effortlessly I terrified her. His icicle voice dropped lower, escaping as nothing more than a caressing murmur. “We are enemies, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I could help you to never, ever sink this low. To hold your head high despite the pain that tortures you. You don’t have to be prey any more . . .”