Watching . . . waiting . . . the one-woman audience held her breath, somehow forcing her stocking-clad legs not to tremble with anticipation. She'd been carelessly, purposefully tactless, throwing out insulting phrases that would have sent any normal male into apoplexies of proud rage—all for the sake of a good show. If the phoenix boy gave her teeth, or at least an annoyed glare (or frown? he probably couldn't glare properly, not without eyes) then Kirastasia would know where to go from there. But he didn't. No ruffled feathers, no snapping beak. Not even a single delicious shred of wounded dignity. This beautiful brute was giving Kirastasia absolutely nothing to go off of. Their little improv play drew silence from the starving audience as expectation toppled to the ground. And then—a chorus of furious boos. Abruptly miss "Ah-ZEE-ah" wanted to stand up from her seat and hurl any rock within a hundred yards at Rom's smug ruined masterpiece of a face.

Perhaps if Kira had been exposed to more wolves who liked to "play," she would have been able to see past her scalding disappointment to notice how closely the soldier's name resembled that of an exiled prince from Cold Summers. Fortunately for mister Rom, the snowflake damsel was still very much a child. She hadn't heard much about the kalak royal family's woes while imprisoned in Saw Tooth, and even if she had she wouldn't have given a damn. As for the notion that somebody could possibly attempt to string her along when she was clearly puppet master . . . well, the girl hadn't the foggiest of how to proceed. Kirastasia couldn't very well call the flame king out, could she? That would end their game at an unacceptable stalemate. She, the spoiled brat, wished to rifle through his pockets for the gold coin he surely hid from view. Only then would she win.

Until that time? Hmph. Apparently her blood-colored plaything had just shoved them both into a frustrating war of attrition. Fine—Kirastasia would show him just how good she was at getting her way.

She wore her most attractive pout—not that the ungrateful mongrel could witness it—and swiveled her adorable ears alertly forward. A subtle parade of thought flickered across the jagged planes of the prince’s foxy muzzle. Once more, Kira’s heart quickened with eagerness. Was he going to tell her off? Would he finally admit to how much she unsettled him? Actually, neither of those things happened. Faint distaste blossomed into a suave smirk that drew up the corners of the boy’s mouth, curtains teasingly drawn open to reveal a glimmer of pearly knives. When he spoke, the words poured forth like a gentle fountain of bubbly golden champagne. Kirastasia bit the side of her cheek so hard she tasted a zing of blood. Her porcelain fur lifted away from the abrupt warmth whooshing across her flesh. Ohhhhh yes! If there was a single thing on this planet that Kira absolutely NEEDED, it was being doted on by lovely people.

“Mister Rom, how could you say that! I’ve only just met you!” tittered the vanilla vixen. She bumped him playfully with her shoulder, her feathered banner copping a less-than-subtle feel down the back of Rom’s hind leg. “I’m not that sort of girl,” Kirastasia continued softly, conspiratorially, in a tone that suggested she was exactly that kind of girl. “I know better than to throw myself at any male that comes stumbling over the border. Especially one who’d never see it coming.”

There, again: another rude jab. And how did Rom repay her? By drawing inward and playing “shy,” hiding her prize under a blanket again. Kira could scream with frustration.

She began marching into Malignant without another word, tail straight behind her and fluffed out like that of a pissed off feline. Yes, the winter bird had the pleasure of feeling Sir Daddy Long-Legs leaning on her like a beautiful crutch, yet Kirastasia hardly thought it could make up for his INFURIATING refusal to participate adequately. Dumb boy . . . it would serve him right if he fell over and busted that gorgeous nose of his . . .

“Mister Rom?!” HAHAHA! He did it! He honestly fumbled! Kirastasia never left her post, already prepared to support the towering soldier as he struggled to pull himself back up. At one point, his slim chest pressed directly against her own—and Kira could feel the thudding wild beat of his heart as if he’d thrust it into her rib cage. Pleasure erupted within her. To think only the thinnest barrier separated that heartbeat from the rest of the world . . . from her fangs . . . Kirastasia wanted to reach in and pull it out and wear it as a crown. What better jewel than the life force of a phoenix? “Oh, of course I forgive you, poor dear. It’s not your fault. I should have picked a better path for us. There are too many pitfalls ahead . . .”

She slunk sensually beside him, drawing forward until her plume could sweep under his chin—which it did, tracing a line up his throat. “I’ll lead the way.”