Kershov had taken up a delightful new hobby: decorating.

It would be polite to say that the alabaster Alpha’s idea of “decorating” differed slightly from the traditional concept of beautifying a space with tasteful additions; it would be realistic to say that what passed for “decorating” in Kershov’s twisted mind was in fact something vulgar, sadistic, and the very antithesis to beauty—down to every last drop of spattered blood and excrement. His little DIY projects were scattered all across the border, hidden in nooks and crannies so that newcomers would really have to search hard for whatever was creating the vague but stomach-turning stench of tortured death. Ker made sure those diligent efforts would not go unpunished: each craft practically oozed with pain, a sight sure to scare the living shit out of anyone that actually managed to find one tucked neatly under a thorn bush or tangle of roots. His current masterpiece was the skinned carcass of a hare; he’d shorn its pelt off with careful teeth until the soft fur hung like strips of ribbon off its spine, layers peeled back to better showcase the extra present Kershov inserted into its abdominal cavity. There, nestled below its frail ribcage, was a bloodstained pair of bird wings, rescued from another successful piece of artwork. Kershov gave his most recent ornament a quietly scrutinizing stare. What could possibly make this masterpiece better? His curved talons prodded delicately at the hare’s limp limbs, trying to reshape the tattered musculature so they’d freeze into a more interesting pose once rigor mortis set in. At last, a satisfied sigh drooped from the alabaster Alpha’s lungs. A smile of subdued pride gently tugged the handsome half of his muzzle. Perfect. And he knew just the spot to leave it.

As a rule, wolves were not adverse to gore. They were the proudest of hunters, killing prey with cold efficiency that made the forest shudder in fear. But what Kershov was doing . . . was wrong. Wolves killed to survive, not because they took sick enjoyment in the suffering of lesser creatures. They hunted with dignity and respect for what they ate; Ker tortured helpless animals into mangled corpses because he enjoyed watching them squirm. He ate none of his decorations, for they served a purpose other than to soothe his voracious appetite. Each and every miserable creature that fell under his fangs was a warning to outsiders: challenge my pack and die.

After Kershov had all but mutilated his last opponent, he was utterly shocked to hear yet another bastard’s greedy call polluting the air so soon. Darling Scarlet Nights had dutifully—if not hungrily—accepted the challenge, but still—what the fuck was wrong with these entitled curs trying to usurp the throne? Why not lust after another pack with a weaker Alpha, someone easier to overthrow? Apparently these foes were too stupid to grasp the absolute dominance Kershov and his mate enforced across their territory; therefore, Ker would kindly remind them by strategically placing his loving gifts down the border. See? The Royals are savage here. Save yourself and leave while you still can.

Masterpiece finished, Kershov deftly took it in his jaws and set out for the nearest stretch of the invisible wall. Moonlight painted veils of dappled silver across his ghostly hide as he stalked silently through the forest. Tonight the air was cool and thick with delicious twilight scents, although Ker detected no immediate traces of his soldiers nearby. They must have been hunting, patrolling, or training—their tireless dedication was truly something to behold. No wonder so many wretched curs slavered at the idea of owing his territory. They wanted his pawns. A half-mad growl grated from the frigid Czar’s chest. Damned outsiders, threatening his property, he would rip them to shreds and use those shreds to embellish his home décor—

A scent!

Kershov’s head whipped up, muscles quivering as his senses latched onto an unexpected perfume mixing oh-so-alluringly with the damp night air. The tendons in his powerful jaws tightened, almost crushing his hard work. Impossible. Blood pounding, Ker launched into a stealthy sprint. His pelt rippled like mist. Talons gauged the earth. At last he materialized from the shadows directly across from none other than Aviias, panting as if he’d fought an army to get here. Kershov spat his craft down with a dull thud, attention focused entirely on those infuriating blue eyes. His own gaze—recently one-eyed, as his latest enemy had turned his right eye into a useless pit—took on a feverish brightness, obsidian iris reflecting starlight like a mirror. His hackles were icicles atop his nape. This was not the calm, collected, calculating King that Aviias once knew. This was someone far more . . . unstable.

“Lady Aviias! And here I thought you were dead.” The words were snarled out half-accusing, half-teasing, an unsettling combination. Kershov ran his tongue over the exposed teeth on the right half of his muzzle, making them glint. “What brings you back to Abendrot, hm? A little lonely, were we? Or perhaps . . .” He stepped over the mangled rabbit’s corpse, lurching right into Avi’s personal space, maw inches from her pert little snout. “. . . perhaps the spoiled princess came to bitch about her missing throne?”