In the glow of the dying sun, Kershov’s bone-white pelt captured surprisingly warm tones of gold and orange, momentarily turning his snowy form into one of pale fire. His single black eye glittered furiously as he surveyed his kingdom from atop the plateau that stood at Abendrot’s center; the glorious sight of his kingdom made the fur along his spine tingle with possessive energy and longing. This is mine. I BUILT this. Lungs opened as if to suck in the sky. The powerful collective scent of the pack saturated the evening air and tasted delicious on Kershov’s tongue—but it brought with it an odd kind of pain that the arctic dragon had never experienced before. Abendrot was his now . . . but for how much longer would he hold it in his claws?

A violent stab of anger threatened to slice away all of Ker’s coherent thought and his muzzle went taut with the whisper of a snarl. There was something . . . murderous in the frosted Pharaoh’s nature that was growing more and more dominant with each passing moon. He felt it seething in his blood like a starving parasite, feeding on every shred of pent up aggression and dark desire Kershov had buried within himself for years. That inner beast wanted nothing more than to destroy everything it could touch, to break its enemies down like ice cracking underfoot and twist the souls of innocents into obedient puppets. A catastrophic force. Disgusting. Kershov hated that wretched lack of self-control more than he had hated any foe in his entire life. His biggest threat had always been his own evil. And one cannot hide from oneself.

With a growl simmering lethally in his throat, the tundra gangster stalked away from his perfect vantage point toward the cool shade of the forest. Here his pallid coat stole back its wintry colorlessness, transforming the outlaw once more into a misty ghost. Shadows softened the hideous wreckage of the right half of his face, where scars pulled back his jowls to reveal rows of deadly teeth—but not by much, obscuring the worst of the healed wounds while still allowing a vague idea of the devil’s mask. Monster. Demon. The other packs trembled at his name. That used to offend Kershov so much he could spit in revulsion. When had that false insult changed to terrifying truth? “It’s all because of that little bitch,” Kershov rumbled to himself. His feverish mind conjured up the picture of a femme, proud despite her petite stature. He remembered the way she’d touched him, as if she could reach a part of his dead heart that understood “goodness.” He remembered how she’d stolen his prize soldier out from under his nose like a filthy THIEF. Rage dug its fingers into Ker’s jaws and he ground his teeth together so hard the sound forced him back to reality. I’d be fine if it weren’t for her. I wouldn’t be spiraling out of control.

The last thing Kershov wanted was the scent of a stranger in his nose. It breezed into his muzzle as he loped closer to Abendrot’s border, suddenly snapping all his senses on high alert. An intruder? A CHALLENGER? What had been a low growl crescendoed into a thunderous snarl. The alabaster Alpha had enough to deal with without another greedy cur slavering after Abendrot—except, the closer Ker got to the source of the unfamiliar perfume, the more he realized that this stranger probably didn’t desire his throne. There had been no challenging call . . . simply silence stretching on as the unknown wolf waited. Good. He’d take his time reaching her: it would take a while for the beastly King to wrestle his instincts back under.

Grey Wind came first to Kershov’s sight. The Czar paused, unsure if he wanted to see the dedicated soldier so soon after their tension-filled conversation. How much had the intelligent gladiator gleaned from their brief interaction? Hopefully not much . . . Kershov didn’t want to dispose of Grey Wind so soon. Next the ivory warrior noticed the varg responsible for the new perfume polluting the air: a female of exceptional beauty. Her exotic striped pelt reminded Kershov of his own daughter, Kirastasia. The resemblance brought no warmth with it; Ker had only spent time with his spawn once, and did not plan on doing so again. He marched quietly from the cover of the woods until he stood just behind Grey Wind. His subject apparently had a handle on the situation. For the moment, the Monarch would assess the fae at his leisure.

Kershov was stunned to see the spirit of a wolf long lost mirrored in the stranger’s glassy cyan gaze. Atticus seemed empty, a perfect hollow doll awaiting instructions from her owner . . . yet a delicate shard of personality lurked behind those blue windows like a wraith trying to avoid the light, timid and insubstantial. Kershov briefly wondered if this lovely creature could feel. If she experienced emotion, or if she did, know how to respond to emotion when it infiltrated the flawless veneer of her calm. Ker tilted his skull as he studied, her, intrigued. Well, if Atticus could feel, surely she could be broken . . .

No. Mustn’t think of that. Mustn’t wonder how difficult it would be to pry out that tiny thread of character and pull it until it snapped. A gentle, if chilled, smile crept softly over the handsome half of Kershov’s visage. “After you’ve stated your name and purpose, as Grey Wind as requested, submit.”