The Secret Beast was starving, and its vicious hungry cries as it tore at the insides of its prison meant that Kershov had to hunt. Not for vermin or deer, but for something forbidden: the flesh of his own kind. Wolf blood. A victim that thought and hurt and screamed like himself, someone that would know pain beyond fear when Kershov captured them. His inner demon needed to see the light of intelligent terror as it sewed its havoc. It needed to dominate, destroy, devour. For years the Ice King had kept this monster trapped beneath layers of impenetrable self-control, using its madness to best suit his purpose, but now . . . now the tides had turned, and Kershov had become a slave to the thing he’d kept caged for so long.

His embarrassing agony wouldn’t be nearly so hard to bear if it hadn’t been for one small problem: Abendrot. Well . . . make that an enormous problem. An entire army of pawns carrying a torch of loyalty for their snow-born Emperor, and all the damned devil wanted to do was pick and pry at each of them until they broke. Kershov was no stranger to torture; he utilized it the way some people use gardening tools to straighten out their gardens, ripping out the weeds and honing the blossoms he wanted to keep. But his horrendous secret self? It tortured for fun and no other reason. It did not care whom it ravaged, how far it went. The wolves of Abendrot proved to be such a temptation for its thirst that for the first time in days Kershov forced himself to step outside the invisible walls. He dare not admit it out loud, but the alabaster gangster treasured his soldiers. He could not live with himself if he wasted their lives just to feed his shameful covert personality.

Wolves of the free lands . . . they were fair game.

The winter sky was a uniform grey that transformed the landscape into a timeless picture of gloom. It was hard to tell just how close to evening the day had crawled, for Kershov’s single onyx eye couldn’t find the ball of fire above to mark the hour. Of course, that suited him perfectly. Any that saw him now would hardly be able to recognize the Alpha: he’d slithered through every muddy patch of ground he could find, burying his royal scent and painting his immaculate white coat to obscure his shape, scent, and pelt. Even his face had been smeared with grime, transforming the ruined half of his muzzle into an indiscernible mask of grimy black. A few fresh trails enticed the beast; however, Kershov hunted for a specific type of victim. They had to be someone who wouldn’t put up much of a fight, someone lost and alone. It wasn’t until the phantom snatched the scent of grief that he paused. His darkened hackles lifted along his neck. His jaws began to slaver. Immediately he set his direction for the step-stone waterfalls just ahead.

Ears perked forward at the sound of heartbroken sobs, heart quickening as if Kershov had heard the call of his lover. He circled in a roundabout way, keeping his murk-spattered hide in the filmy shade of the forest until he’d found a choice vantage point. Ahead, curled on the ground as if she’d collapsed there and lost the strength to move, was a young fae. She was a tiny thing, quite pretty in an understated sort of way, and utterly on her own. The scent of a pack clung faintly to her mousy fur—but the beast had already marked its victim, and not even the cologne of another army would dissuade it.

“There, there . . . why so upset, little lady?” Kershov breathed out the words like a winter breeze as he stepped calmly from his cover, movements slow and languid. He didn’t suspect he’d startle the girl into running—yet, even if she chose to bolt, the lass wouldn’t get very far. The glacial glimmer swimming in the monster’s lonely pitch-glass window warned her of that. “What is a lovely creature such as yourself doing all alone? You seem awfully far from home, Miss Moondown Shadows . . .” He was circling her, far enough away to let her think she had enough space to leave if she wanted, slowly enough that she’d believe she had a chance.