Kershov raised a subtle wolven brow at Hestia’s less-than-subtle murderous hints; she seemed to be working extra hard to assure the ivory warrior that her looks were more than decoration, more than some superficial thing she’d been blessed with. This damsel could really get a brute’s brain spinning—especially one like Kershov, whose powers of observation and love of dissection absolutely craved challenges. What drove Hestia to flaunt her pretty face so ferociously? Why did she construct a serious stone wall to block admiration one moment, only to destroy it with sinister saucy banter the next? Perhaps these wildly different personality facets were another tool in her arsenal . . . something to keep her “puppets” on their toes . . . how cute. Maybe she secretly hoped that her Sire would tear into the gorgeous maned wolfess, since the russet bird might be the only other female Hestia could possibly see as a rival in beauty.

“Bored?” Kershov echoed, wintry-cool voice drawling out a hint of pretended concern. His gaze slid halfway over one shoulder, carefully watching Hestia as she hummed behind him. “Can’t have that, can we? Perhaps you two lovely young ladies will find someone—er, something—to amuse yourselves with soon.” He suppressed an equally dark chuckle, attempting to maintain his serious air in front of the waiting Kalik queen. Ker wasn’t intimidated by the fae; striking fear into the heart of an ice demon responsible for horrors seen only in Hell was impossible. However, creatures like the red woman didn’t fall under the dominance of others easily. If Kershov did anything she might perceive as “weak,” no matter how far from frailty Ker might be, there was no telling if she’d bow down or make his life miserable. Best to put up a frigid front. Then the female would understand that even her most potent flirtatious glances would never have any effect.

And damn, this lass was a professional when it came to flirtatious glances.

Her lava-bright bedroom eyes swept over the Alpha’s war-torn frame, her own body melting loose and supple into the grass—the picture of heartbreaking vulnerability. When she finally submitted, she did so with finesse; muscles contracted with liquid grace, turning her submission into an alluring pose. Surely by this point other males would be drooling their brains out. Kershov merely smirked and flicked his tail, dismissing the elegant performance as an insignificant flit of pageantry. It’ll take more than that to disarm me, pretty thing. “Madame Morgana, welcome to the army.” He flashed her a smile filled with glittering teeth. “Consider yourself an Abendrot recruit.”