Kershov mentally ticked off the symptoms as Halina gave them, forming a concrete list he’d spit at a healer as soon as he grabbed one. Already he had a pack in mind to supplicate . . . but despite the desperation of Halina’s rapidly declining situation, it galled the arctic King to resort to another army’s help. Saw Tooth . . . they were the only ones Ker knew of that housed experienced healers equipped to deal with something as uncommon and potentially deadly as poison. He only hoped that Abendrot’s tenuous relationship with them wouldn’t complicate or destroy his meager chances of procuring a cure for Halina. No kingdom had ever willingly trusted this land’s most militaristic band of wolves. They thought his soldiers were recklessly violent, consuming without stop, willing to crush any that opposed them. And while in certain circumstances that might be true, such a dark reputation would surely force Kershov to delve into his very deepest reservoir of humble political skills.

Another seismic growl shook the Alpha’s taut vocal chords. He’d kneel down and lick Queen Moth’s paws if he had to, but the filthy mongrel responsible for this mess would absolutely pay for every humiliation Kershov endured.

“You will stop talking, mutt, or I’ll pull your guts out through your eye sockets.” Kershov’s voice was calm at first, fatally so, as still and soft as the atmosphere before a hurricane shreds through it. Yet even before he finished the threat the growl in his throat textured each deadly word like the jarring purr of a chainsaw motor. Then he forced himself to look at Halina, only Halina, precious Halina. He tried to wrestle the overwhelming burning gnashing urge to KILL beneath a safer desire to help his valuable pawn. The two warring emotions could not coexist. He’d lose time by tearing Draven apart, no matter how hideously badly he wanted to right this moment.

“You will repay him again, Halina. I promise.” The aggressive ache in Kershov’s chest made his teeth grind together, an unholy sight given his ravaged mask. In an effort to ease some of his own pain—and to prevent Draven from attempting to slink off—the enraged Czar turned his teeth and slammed his jaws down on the doomed cur’s foreleg, wrenching upward until he heard a sickening pop. Then his fangs cut upward, toward Draven’s smug smirking face, and sliced a neat wound right above his arrogant eyes. The small wound would surely bleed profusely, as most head injuries did, and although it might not cause the fool to pass out or die he would leave a trail of stinking scarlet wherever he roamed—if he could roam far at all on that dislocated leg.

Then the frost-breathing Pharaoh was at Halina’s shadowy side, ready to support her in case she faltered. “Come. We’re getting you help. I won’t leave you alone.”