If Kirastasia had found this wolf dead in a ditch, her sense of wonder at his existence wouldn’t be diminished in the least. After all, he’d still be lovely and strange—even cold as stone. But the fact that he was breathing and peering about with that adorable blind visage . . . this was the difference between a butterfly pinned to a board and one fluttering in a garden. She marveled at the rust-colored fur, sleek and brilliant wherever the light touched it; her honeyed gaze wandered up and down the freakishly long limbs, struck by the absurdity of their shape and yet the grace they possessed; and that face, oh that face, each scar a scribbled line in a secret suicide note folded up and sealed behind closed lips. And the fishnet princess couldn’t wait to tear it open. Surely such a story was written in blood and tears, something she could pour over like a lovesick teen with a shitty romance novel. What happened? Kira wanted to squeal while touching those old wounds. If he were dead, he’d never answer; she’d just have to stare enraptured at that amazing, listless body, delicious questions left unanswered. But he was alive. Miracle of miracles. Kirastasia had found herself a phoenix.

His displeasure at her naive comment brought a devilish smirk to her kissers. Mentally, she filed it away: he doesn’t like it. He’s a big boy. No teasing. Which mean, of course, yes teasing. Despite his irritation, the stranger was still supernaturally beautiful. If he still had eyes, what color would they be? And how might they look when they lifted from the ground, a frown placed beneath them like a capsized boat? Kirastasia wondered if he’d snap at her for treating him so sweetly. The anticipation of his assuredly haughty tones brought her ears straining forward. But then his temperament transformed . . . he wilted into himself . . . and the ice damsel was disappointed. Her snarky grin wobbled and turned downcast. Boo. The angrily tortured brute she expected vanished from sight. He might as well have shown her a gem and then immediately stuffed it back up his sleeve.

Ah well—the punkette would simply accept this turn of events and play along. She hadn’t had an interesting playmate in months. Besides, his voice was as lovely as his frame. Not even a woeful tone of distress could ruin it. A girlish giggle hid itself behind her lips (hee hee, “prick”) and then she was all business. As daughter of Queens and heir of Malignant, Kirastasia snatched up her dress-up crown and donned it with gaudy pride. “You are quite forgiven, mister. Without your eyes, it’s no wonder you couldn’t see how important I am.” This was said with only a little more arrogance than necessary; she might be a pawn (and a forgotten pawn, at that) but Kira was still of royal blood. She hadn’t been born in a ditch to mere peasants. People knew who she was—it was sort of a big deal. “As for myself, I apologize for coming up to you so suddenly. If I’d known about your . . . a’hem . . . visual hindrance, I would have used more tact.”

Be angry with me. SAY something. The pallid girl was almost certain that something darker lurked in that flaming breast. She was on the edge of her figurative seat, a child at the zoo gawking at a pit of alligators, HOPING one would thrash to the surface with teeth unleashed. Alas: nothing but misery and sadness. Too tame. Too boring. What did a young lady have to do to watch some AGONY around here?!


Oops—that sounded rather vicious! But Kirastasia was not the textbook definition of “sadistic.” She was not a girl who sought to hurt others in order to satisfy an evil, malicious thirst for their amusing pain. Hers was an innocent desire for something interesting, something new and fresh—as to be expected of a young lass. She’d rather devour the excitement of a creature in distress than sit pretty and idle on her toy throne. She was not the maniac laughing while her victim burned before her; she was the child with a magnifying glass, happily burning ants because she knew no better.

Maybe . . . that made her scarier.

No longer worried about getting closer, Kirastasia primly pranced over the border until she was by the fire-boy’s side. “You poor thing,” she breathed, voice overflowing with saintly love. “I can take you to this pack’s Alphess. I’m sure she’ll be willing to let you in, despite your . . .” Here her voice trailed off with a vague raising of vocal chords, wordlessly alluding to the man’s tattered mask. “Anyway, don’t you worry, mister. You’re in good paws. My name’s Kirastasia, by the way. You might want to remember that.” And with that, her tail swished brazenly across his flank, daring him to snap at the obviousness of her aid.