Kershov had felt it stalking the outer fences of his mind for moons, had cringed as it tested the boundaries of its prison with malicious teeth and challenged the crumbling self-control of its warden; each time the alabaster gangster had held it off with sheer unrelenting power of will, burying it beneath vigilant layers of ice. Deeper, deeper . . . but those frozen safeguards were thawing under the heat of that other thing, and each new film of discipline seemed thinner than the last, and finally Kershov had to admit that he was finally slipping down the steep cliff he’d created from himself. Madness: that was the name of the beast that haunted Ker’s chest and turned a carefully calculating monster into a far more dangerous and unpredictable element of destruction. What could the arctic outlaw do when he’d become something he loathed?

The answer had manifested itself a few weeks ago, when stress had driven Kershov to find a way to vent his violent anxiety without murdering innocents. Decorating.

It would be polite to say that the alabaster Alpha’s idea of “decorating” differed slightly from the traditional concept of beautifying a space with tasteful additions; it would be realistic to say that what passed for “decorating” in Kershov’s twisted mind was in fact something vulgar, sadistic, and the very antithesis to beauty—down to every last drop of spattered blood and excrement. His little DIY projects were scattered all across the border, hidden in nooks and crannies so that newcomers would really have to search hard for whatever was creating the vague but stomach-turning stench of tortured death. Ker made sure those diligent efforts would not go unpunished: each craft practically oozed with pain, a sight sure to scare the living shit out of anyone that actually managed to find one tucked neatly under a thorn bush or tangle of roots. His current masterpiece was the skinned carcass of a hare; he’d shorn its pelt off with careful teeth until the soft fur hung like strips of ribbon off its spine, layers peeled back to better showcase the extra present Kershov inserted into its abdominal cavity. There, nestled below its frail ribcage, was a bloodstained pair of bird wings, rescued from another successful piece of artwork. Kershov gave his most recent ornament a quietly scrutinizing stare. What could possibly make this masterpiece better? His curved talons prodded delicately at the hare’s limp limbs, trying to reshape the tattered musculature so they’d freeze into a more interesting pose once rigor mortis set in. At last, a satisfied sigh drooped from the alabaster Alpha’s lungs. A smile of subdued pride gently tugged the handsome half of his muzzle. Perfect. And he knew just the spot to leave it.

As a rule, wolves were not adverse to gore. They were the proudest of hunters, killing prey with cold efficiency that made the forest shudder in fear. But what Kershov was doing . . . was wrong. Wolves killed to survive, not because they took sick enjoyment in the suffering of lesser creatures. They hunted with dignity and respect for what they ate; Ker tortured helpless animals into mangled corpses because he enjoyed watching them squirm. He ate none of his decorations, for they served a purpose other than to soothe his voracious appetite. Each and every miserable creature that fell under his fangs was a warning to outsiders: challenge my pack and die.

Masterpiece finished, Kershov deftly took it in his jaws and set out for the nearest stretch of the invisible wall. Moonlight painted veils of dappled silver across his ghostly hide as he stalked silently through the forest. Tonight the air was cool and thick with delicious twilight scents, although Ker detected no immediate traces of his soldiers nearby. They must have been hunting, patrolling, or training—their tireless dedication was truly something to behold—

A scent!

Kershov’s head whipped up, muscles quivering as his senses latched onto an unexpected perfume mixing oh-so-alluringly with the damp night air. The tendons in his powerful jaws tightened, almost crushing his hard work. Impossible. Blood pounding, Ker launched into a stealthy sprint. His pelt rippled like mist. Talons gauged the earth. At last he materialized from the shadows directly across from none other than Verity . . . and Verity’s brood. The bastard children those fiends had forced upon her when they’d dumped her broken body by the border. He dropped his piece of artwork. Kershov’s single onyx eye swept over the young lads, appraising them individually; though he gave no outward sign, the Alpha was prepared to execute them all the second Verity told him she didn’t want them anymore. “Verity . . . it has been a while.” No judgment or anger. Ker felt elated to have his subject home—even if that “elation” was really nothing more than a special sense of calm and satisfaction at having an important toy returned. “What took you so far away for so long?”