Kershov had never wasted time dancing with weak women. Shy glances and coy smiles repulsed him; gentle touches and saccharine words of kindness crawled over his flesh with the same unsettling sensation as spider legs. An apex predator had no use for soft things—it craved a challenge, a more aggressive kind of courtship that made the traditional mawkish wooing of most animals seem pale and sickening and pointless. Beasts built by unforgiving hardship did not love—could not love—so they searched for the next best thing: respect. Someone equal in ambition and savagery that wouldn’t break under the ferocious brand of “affection” bestowed by their lover. A match. A partner. Kershov had always pursued the females that would kill him as soon as kiss him, because despite what kinder wolves believed there was nothing more satisfying to a razor-sharp heart than another abrasive puzzle piece to clash against. In this world, far removed from those frigid nights and desolate tundra sunrises, Kershov had discovered only two she-wolves capable of keeping up with his ruthlessness. Queens had flawlessly manipulated him to ensure the safety of her own pack. Scarlet Nights had won his heart as a powerless puppet and seized her true crown regardless. Neither lady had ever asked for exclusive rights to Ker’s barren wasteland of a soul, nor did the arctic monster expect those two stunning vipers to limit themselves to his bed. He granted them their independence. Fully believed in their ultimate abilities to care for themselves and win their own battles. So if that was the case . . .

. . . why was Kershov ill with the want of seeing Scarlet Nights?

It had only been a matter of hours since she’d gone to deal with the reckless bastard lusting for Abendrot—not even long enough for Kershov to seriously contemplate a negative outcome. It wasn’t as if the ivory warrior had nothing to do to entertain himself during her short absence. There were borders to remark, recruits to supervise, decorating to do. Half-finished projects littered the outskirts of the territory, betraying the frantic state of mind Kershov tried to crush in vain. Any thought inevitably curved back to Scarlet Nights. Should he initiate a pack hunt? Scarlet might be famished after her fight. Should the soldiers be sent on patrol? They might be able to escort their Queen when she returns home. Did this sculpture need a few more rib bones? The Alphess might find that tacky. What on earth was wrong with him?! Mortified at his own pitiful need, Kershov snatched the deer skull he’d been working on in his teeth and slammed it into the nearest tree as hard as he could, the dry cracking of bone music to his ears. He smashed it again and again and again. Felt pieces of cranium cut his gums. Tasted the iron tang of his own blood mix with the stale red stains of his pretty little projects. When the skull was nothing more than chunks of broken fragments Kershov tossed them into the air and listened for the tiny thuds they made when they hit the ground, his chest taut with the effort it took not to scream. This was not the old Kershov, glacially aloof, needing no one but himself. The beast that had flinched from Kobato’s gesture of kindness was breaking apart its prison of ice—and it desperately wanted its mate. It wanted touch. And it would not rest until Scarlet Nights was safe in Abendrot wearing the pelt of the challenger on her shoulders.

That was why, when a howl shattered the sky—the voice of the Czarina—Kershov was full-on sprinting toward the noise with the sudden power of an arrow released.

The white outlaw charged blindly through Abendrot’s shaded hallways, relying on flickers of sight and echoes of sound to guide his massive paws toward his Queen. Birds sprang from their perches like a spray of bullets over the canopy, anxious to escape the wrath of this pale warlord. Claws gauged out clods of earth as Ker ran, as if he were tearing the flesh off his enemy with each ground-devouring stride. Dread and a terrible, terrible fury tormented Kershov’s bestial heart, because he knew the instant the howl ended that Scarlet was in peril, and everything that was twisted and merciless and angry inside of him shrieked against the possibility that someone would DARE harm his chosen so close to her own kingdom. Nobody touches my property. She. Is. MINE.

He erupted from the thickest cover of the forest just in time to witness Scarlet Nights decapitating a coyote. She looked as lovely as a princess plucking a daisy from its stem. Kershov plunged across the distance between himself and his mate, single obsidian eye reflecting distilled hatred and gleaming like black ice. He opened his vast maw and snarled at the retreating band of curs, his sinews snapping as he stopped abruptly by Scarlet’s side—as if his inner monstrosity had been pulled up short on its leash. Already the vengeful thing snapped silently at its restraints, seething for the blood of its prey . . . but Kershov the King, the one fighting for control of his sanity, knew that standing next to Scarlet Nights was worlds more important than attempting to hunt down a few piss-drinking whelps who’d probably never dare to slink by Abendrot again. Still, his breathing sounded ragged and murderous. Not like someone pleased to see his darling wife come home at last.

The red-painted Empress murmured something down to the spasming thing by her paws when Kershov wrenched himself back into reality. Without a word Ker aimed his fatal knives and shut the whimpering bastard up with a single precise strike to the jugular. Done. Only then did the feral winter Pharaoh have time to peruse the damage done to his favorite plaything . . . and instantly the caged beast was silenced. Its level of rage was too high, too damaging to be allowed expression—so Kershov mastered it with astonishing swiftness, burying it under an impenetrable layer of permafrost where it could not harm his beloved. An eerie, nearly robotic calmness suffused his entire body as the alabaster gangster lowered his nose to rest tenderly on Scarlet’s sleek brow, the only place he thought he could touch her without hurting her further. “Welcome home, dearest. Tell me all about it.”