Kershov was growing weary of challenger upon ignorant, filthy, disgustingly greedy challenger defiling his doorstep—but for a creature as tested and tormented by the elements as Ker, such irritation only served to whet the deadly bitter blade of his merciless instinct. The first few times someone had demanded his rightful power, the arctic outlaw had assumed his rivals were merely buzzards hoping to scavenge on the once-declining territory; however, Abendrot now seethed with aggressive activity. None could lust after its invaluable soldiers and rich land and still think conquest a simple matter of settling in like an avaricious cuckoo in the wrong nest. Kershov had raised this pack from the shadows with tooth and claw. Transformed it into an army whispered about with fear and awe through every corner of this small, peace-weakened world. His scent—his blood—stained the invisible wall embracing this kingdom as if the pallid Alpha had carved it from his own bones. His wolves had pledged their pure and irrevocable loyalty to him, him and Scarlet Nights, and yet countless sickening fools threw themselves at his teeth because they felt entitled to a glory they had no part in constructing. Why not prey on a weaker pack begging for new leadership? What kind of appalling stupidity fooled a wolf into meddling in an army’s affairs?

Barely more than a moon after the pallid tundra phantom had trounced Havok, another such cur decided it was his turn to stick his muzzle in the carcass. Nights had dutifully (perhaps hungrily) answered his call, giving her grateful King some respite. Kershov’s wounds, severe though they were, mended reasonably well; an abysmal pit replaced his right eye, though the cold-hearted Czar seemed unaffected by the loss. He was proud, but not unnecessarily vain. To be honest, Ker had survived worse—it only took a single horrified glance at his ruined face to deduce that. At least fortune had been kind enough to direct Havok’s vicious jaws toward the right half of Ker’s mask; there that side of his broad muzzle had already been shorn away to reveal rows of serrated daggers in a permanent smile, befitting of a monster. Pearlescent scars spider-webbed across the bridge of Kershov’s snout and over his previously cracked cheekbone, leading like grotesque tributaries to the empty lake of his eye socket. A mess. A damn demonic mess. It was as if the beast inside were finding ways to present itself on the rugged shell that imprisoned it. If potential recruits found it hard to look upon their Commander before, their stomachs would surely heave now.

Except . . . there hadn’t been many new recruits recently—or if there had been, Ker had not noticed, because the pounding in his skull was growing louder every day. It began as a soft, steady tap in the back of his mind, like the clicking of a metronome or the ominous tic of a bomb. The fault of a she-wolf, robbing him of the last tie he had to his tundra past. Her unforgiveable sin. His soldier’s betrayal. Then the pounding had worsened with the challengers, with the pressure from outside packs, and Kershov wrestled it down every single time but never quite destroyed it, only subdued it, and it haunted him like a heartbeat under the floorboards. KILL, the monster decreed, DOMINATE, RAZE AND RUIN. Pointless bloodlust Ker had thought he’d long since conquered savaged the inside of his chest with punishing claws. Seeing Scarlet Nights—his beautiful, brave mate—in such humiliating disrepair must have been the final nail in his sanity’s coffin. Abendrot was supposed to be impenetrable. Its Alpha had ruled for years uncontested by any. Why this sudden decline? Why should Kershov lose the self-mastery he’d worked so hard to achieve?

He had never expected fairness in life. But this injustice seemed too much to bear.

At least the vicious Pharaoh still possessed enough of his stunningly cruel clarity to realize the only possible course of action. One as destructive as himself could never be Czar: he was starting to see all his subalterns as disposable toys rather than priceless pawns, something his old self would deem revolting. Wrong. Sick. Which was why, despite the pouring rain and bone-shattering thunder, Kershov was standing mere yards away from the ruthless knight who’d ravaged Scarlet Nights. The one known as Pyreo.

Tracking down the pallid ghost had not been easy; however, Ker had dogged rage on his side. His single eye glared across the space between them as if he could burn a hole straight through the other male’s empty heart. A wicked snarl warped his devil’s façade. He did not bother shouting down the distance to gain Pyreo’s attention, nor did he bother to state his own name. Pyreo would surely know who he was . . . though perhaps not completely why he came. No matter. He would learn soon enough.

Kershov opened his murderous jaws in a roar and charged at his enemy with hackles spiked like frozen nails.