Kershov's project with Venga was not going as well as he'd hoped . . . although that might have been due to the fact that Ker didn't actually care how things worked out. Sure, he had started his sessions with the honest desire to carve Venga into a stronger wolf--her dejected demeanor insulted everything the arctic varg stood for--but after a while, Kershov wasn't sure when, that benevolent intention slipped away and he no longer bothered being so careful. No longer stuck around to see if Venga grew from the lessons he taught her. He simply inflicted the damage and watched her burn from afar, because at some point the pathetic wolfess needed to pick up HERSELF and stop wallowing around like a martyr.

He was losing the battle with his monstrous instincts. Months ago, when his mind had been as clear and sharp and a freshly cut diamond, Kershov would have either succeeded in transforming Venga or driven her out of the territory as a disgusting failure. He wouldn't have kept her around to pointlessly torment her. Venga's suffering meant nothing to the Ice King, and it didn't serve as any special example to his army, so the only explanation for stringing the fae along day after day was that somewhere deep inside his beast rejoiced in agony.

And that was dangerous. How long before Kershov started inflicting that pain on the soldiers he truly cared about?

A headache throbbed beneath Kershov's brow, turning his already dark mood foul and blurring the edges of his vision. In this condition the tundra dragon felt ready to rip the spine out of anybody who dared cross his path. If only Scarlet Nights was around . . . unfortunately Abendrot's Queen had secluded herself from the pack in attempt to speed up her recovery. That damn bastard challenger had torn her up so badly it made Kershov physically sick with rage. He wanted his mate. He wanted her murderous smile and those dark amber eyes that understood everything about him. His sanity was ebbing away like the tide and these days if seemed as if only her touch kept him grounded . . .

Massive snowshoe paws had unconsciously directed Kershov toward the river that served as one of Abendrot's borders. He waded into the shallow banks, dunked his entire head under, and then whipped his cranium out with a gasp, sending glittering water droplets through the air. His headache still screamed. Or maybe it was just madness. That would explain why Kershov's first impulse upon seeing Venga not too far away staring at her own reflection was to laugh aloud. "That's not quite the best way to drown yourself, Venga dear!" Kershov called out, cruelty dripping from his teeth like poison.