Her words had about as much of an effect as feathers tapping the frigid surface of stone. Kershov's single obsidian eye glared furiously into Aviias's trademark saucy smirk, studying her the way a reptile studies its prey before darting forward and swallowing it whole; he heard what she said, but he wasn't listening, wasn't registering her voice as real speech so much as a meaningless jumble of purred syllables. The language of her body was much more interesting, anyway. For example: the little glint in her oceanic eyes that showcased her ever-present irritation with the world; the taut line of her lips as she teetered on the tightrope between playful banter and acidic barbs; the slight spike of her frosty hackles when Kershov leered too close, instinct ordering her to stay alert. Her next phrase was spat out like so much venom, and the ivory King had to chuckle. Classic Aviias. Masking her discomfort with attitude. He hadn't realized how much he missed her petty little acts of defiance . . .

"Now, now, my dear madame--what precisely constitutes knowing you enough? Is that an innuendo I detect? No, impossible . . . not from our darling prude Aviias." Kershov made no effort to give Aviias back her space; he hovered just inside her zone, tasting the electric tension of his silent challenge like a snake testing the air with its forked tongue. This was not a new dance for the duet. They'd waltzed around each other's comfort zones with fangs bared and eyes narrowed, always taunting but never quite at war. Ker suspected Aviias's dreadful hubris was what prevented her from taking her disobedience further; while she choked down the role of subordinate she could at least enjoy some sense of importance, because the Czar valued her immensely despite her more abrasive traits. For Kershov. . . the chain holding him back was his own precious self-mastery, the infrastructure of ice he'd tirelessly crafted to keep the monster inside at bay. He could only go so far before that dreaded demon showed its face. Ker wanted his control. He wanted his absolute power over himself . . . because otherwise he was nothing more than the mindless beasts he so despised.

Unfortunately, that breathtaking tyranny over vicious instincts was beginning to crumble. The alabaster gangster found himself thirsting for conflict simply for conflict's sake. As the pallid femme continued to speak, smile as spiteful as the cat with the cream, Kershov felt his guts churn with the desire to wreck her.

"Scarlet holds a certain sex appeal that is unmatched by any female ever born--but I'm sure you already knew you'd never measure up in that particular department. So how precisely do you plan to contest her? Sheer stubbornness?" A sadistic cackle broke from Kershov's maw with the same sharpness as ice splintering underfoot. He wasn't trying as hard as he usually did to balance lascivious humor with biting wit. Usually the arctic dragon strove to carefully calculate the reactions he earned--now the monster simply wanted any reaction, any degree of discomfort or disgust or delicious fear that came with forcing your conversational partner into uncharted territory. It was true: somewhere Kershov fostered a sick sense of affection for this cheeky creature known as Aviias. That alone used to be enough incentive not to literally dissect her in front of the rest of Abendrot. However. . . for a split second Ker entertained the notion of giving in to his vicious desires. What if he reduced Aviias to nothing more than a broken, bloody prisoner? What if he ground her down the same way he'd tortured Vladya . . . destroying her body and brain . . . hijacking her mind with a single phrase that would make her a slave forever?

Abruptly the half-insane laughter vanished from Kershov's expression. He devoured the minute bridge of space between them by pressing his face into the silken softness of Aviias's ruff, a sigh dragging from his lungs as if the Pharaoh were suddenly tired beyond all words. From this position the femina would not be able to witness any traitorous flits of emotion lighting up Kershov's eye; she would only hear the weariness weighing down her Alpha's wintry voice.

"Yes," he breathed into the fragrance of her fur. "We all have our secrets."