A pulse of electricity arced up Kershov’s chest and made the muscles of his jaws clench in anticipation when the young lass scraped to her paws. His mouth watered at the telltale saltiness of tears flavoring her scent. The air in his lungs condensed into a hard, thin whisper in his chest, heartbeat loud and powerful, all his senses focused like an arrow pulled back and quivering on a bow. He saw, so easily, all her weakest points. Her body was a map. Bite here, cripple permanently. Rip there, bleed out. Points of certain doom. Little secret spots that needed only the slightest suggestion of pain to incapacitate the victim. Kershov could play this girl like an instrument and write a symphony of her screams.

At her declaration as an orphan, the beast inside purred with dark delight. Perfect. Absolutely no relatives to miss her, no one to come looking for her—besides that pesky pack, of course, but clearly they’d made an error in allowing the little one to go wandering off on her own. If Moondown had really cared, they would have stopped this grief-stricken bird before she threw herself from the nest. Now she belonged to Kershov. And he had no intention to heal those tattered wings. “I’m sorry to hear that,” the glacial gladiator murmured in false consolation. His voice was like snow: exquisitely gentle, soft as it fell from his shredded lips . . . and utterly without warmth. It sought to smother the she-wolf and freeze her where she stood. “It must be hard.”

The wolfess refused to look at him directly, but Ker did not need to dive into her daisy-bright eyes to see the agony eating away at her very core. Unable to resist the temptation of her delicious weakness, the white dragon took a step forward, his talons clicking quietly on the smooth pebbles that littered the riverbank. His skin crawled beneath its layer of pallid fur and war-paint mire. How would it feel if her blood replaced the mud on his robes? Would she thank him for baptizing her in the life-water of her heart, or curse the sadness that made her so vulnerable? Only one way to find out . . .

“Of course you can take care of yourself—you seem like a competent wolf.” Stringing the conversation along was simple for Kershov. He’d had years of practice pretending to be a civilized animal. All the proper lines and responses had already been memorized long ago, for different victims, different times. All the while he was lazily strolling closer. Crowding her with the foreboding wall of his great physique. Lonely glittering black star waiting to capture her stare and hold her hostage. “I was rather wondering, little miss, if you could take care of me.”

Kershov knew what most femmes would think when confronted by an aggressive male stranger—they’d believe he was after their body, that he wanted to ravage them mercilessly and leave them broken and alone. In a way, the bone-colored monster was hungry for the girl’s petite dancer’s frame. The pleasure that swarmed his bloodstream while torturing someone was very close to the ecstasy of sex. Poor doll. Maybe she’d wish for a different fate once the ivory predator was through with her.

Before the fae had time to slip out of his grasp, Kershov lunged forward with maw opened wide. He aimed to snatch her by the scruff of the neck and drag her into the musically running water behind her; there Ker would dunk her under the freezing current again and again and again until her lungs begged for air and her bones ached from cold, only stopping once she lost consciousness or gave up entirely—whichever came first. Kershov didn’t have time to deal with a victim that wanted to fight back, and he hoped the violent bath would rip away any traces of Moondown scent from her fur. There must be no traces. No trail. No way to find her. Eventually the colossal dragga walked out of the stream, teeth still firmly digging into his prey’s nape. He did not pause to see if any witnesses lurked in the shadows of the forest. If any had seen, they would be wise to leave well enough alone . . .