Kershov sighed as the battered fae gingerly lowered herself to the earth, and the sound dragging from his lungs was like someone sliding down a wall because their legs were too weak to hold them upright. He suddenly felt very, very tired. Healing Havok seemed an impossible, exhausting task; every tiny movement she made reopened the vicious wounds shredding her flesh—wounds Kershov himself had inflicted, though the arctic monster felt no regret or guilt as he inspected them. Life was pain. If one failed to realize how intimately suffering entwined itself in one’s life, well . . . one was in for a nasty surprise. Why should Ker apologize for defending his territory with such savagery?

Of course . . . it was a shame that such a wolfess had thrown herself into the flames. The ivory dragon found himself musing about “Fate,” or whatever cruel deity tinkered with their lives. If Havok had shown up to his borders asking for a place in the army, instead of his crown, they never would have had to attack each other so ferociously. She would never have had to suffer these egregious injuries, the low humiliating state of desperately needing help from someone else. Help from an enemy, no less! Well, an ex-enemy now. As Ker placed a giant forepaw on the bruised curve of Havok’s shoulder he wondered at the complete lack of hostility that should have been seething into his brain like a swarm of wasps. The monstrous thoughts that had struck at him as he first watched the she-wolf wince in pain had abruptly shrunk away, as if waiting for a different opportunity to flex their ruthlessness. Clarity. As long as Kershov fought back his demons, this would go well for the both of them.

“I know that you know how unpleasant this will be, but try to relax anyway. You’ll hurt yourself further if your muscles are too tight.” His lonely onyx orb had noted the tightness that took over Havok’s face as she prepared for the worst. Long black talons splayed themselves across her dislocated joint. He could sense the heat of torn ligaments beneath the roughness of the pads of his paw. Then—with a sudden deftness perfected from countless times healing his own gangmembers—Kershov pressed down and forced her shoulder down just so, and a loud POP announced Havok’s flawlessly reset joint.

Ker immediately lifted his forepaw away from the dusky canvas of the lady’s fur. His pitiless gaze never left Havok’s face. “Try moving it,” he ordered, voice robotic and unfeeling. Struggling to test out her limb would hurt like burning hell, but Kershov had to ensure he’d pressed her shoulder correctly. If the joint popped back out, then the frozen Alpha would simply try again. And again . . . and again . . . regardless if his efforts tortured Havok as he worked. Healing wasn’t necessarily a pleasant experience, especially if you were being healed by a former gangleader who saw “healed” and “functioning” as the same thing, with no regard for pain.