Poor, poor wolfess. The sour smell of her blood poured into the air like poisoned wine, heady and deadly. Left alone, Havok might die. Her situation was that dire. Kershov fought the urge to laugh in Havok’s face when she brought up his promise to heal her. That ridiculous smile! Where had her hatred gone, the bitterness of defeat? Instead, the Czar valiantly restrained that cruel, bestial temptation and tried to his best to be Kershov the King, not Kershov the monster. He must not succumb to evil. Must not let anyone know that he housed more malevolence than any in this forest had ever seen. Self-control was sacred to the glacial gladiator; if he lost that, then . . .

He wouldn’t think about it. Losing himself meant losing Abendrot. Better to focus on Havok’s wellbeing for now, and think about contingency plans at a later date. “So I did,” Ker agreed quietly, his single onyx eye trailing the massacre of flesh shredded over Havok’s entire body. “And a healer and home you shall get.” Giant paws made for long runs on snow glided closer to the battered female, unhurried. Kershov’s posture was as unthreatening as he could possibly make it: shoulders relaxed, royal banner hovering just at the level of his spine, wanting to coax Havok into a relaxed state best suited for deep healing. It might shock her that Kershov himself planned on fixing her wounds—it would surely stun those fools outside of this pack, who saw the Ice Pharaoh as nothing more than an element of pure destruction.

“You’ll be restored to your full glory in no time, Lady Havok. All I require is a little trust.” Kershov inclined his head to indicate that the blood-caked fae should lay down and take weight off her sore limbs. With all the experience of a veteran healer, Ker brought his muzzle low to inspect the worst of Havok’s lacerations, hypersensitive nose picking apart the different skeins of infection and damage that required more care. Once more, his inner monster roared in victory. It reveled in the calamity its teeth had caused, wanted to tear more and more and more into this already devastated warrioress until there was nothing left but meat and bones. Why? Because it could. And that bloodthirsty impulse terrified Kershov even as his face remained as impassively emotionless as before.