Too late. He had jostled his words and veered recklessly to avoid spilling his guts, but Enigma had already scented trouble anyway. Kershov had vacillated too close to the edge so that, even though he hadn’t fallen over, his Beta sensed the perilous cliff he’d tried to hide from her view. There was no backing out now, no throwing a curtain over it and pretending this resentful uncertainty was simply a sick, elaborate joke. And yet . . . he still could not bring himself to vomit out the poisonous truth dissolving his guts. The arctic Alpha knew he was alarming her with this uncharacteristic show of weakness. The desire to confide in her each filthy urge seething in his blood encroached on Ker’s mind with overwhelming force—and nevertheless he chose to act as King rather than friend. He had to protect her, as best as he knew how. Everything Kershov told his General from here on out would be a lie.

The tragedy was that Enigma would know. And her broken Emperor could only hope her loyalty as a soldier would prevent her from pursuing his downfall as a companion.

When he elevated his singular obsidian stare to level with her own savage blue-green gaze, he gathered all of his ragged self-discipline and aggressively pulled off a tough grin. It was the expression of an outlaw who’s been through hell and is eagerly awaiting the next blow Fate will deal him. A tundra wolf’s face. Not to be so easily crushed. “This army was built because of gladiators like you. We were nothing . . . and then you—lost, as you say—poured your sweat into and made it great. Abendrot desperately needs you and the rest of its fighters. Not the other way around.” This was not something Kershov stated lightly. Most of his existence had revolved around “pack” and the unquestionable loyalty that kept it together. He’d expected his subjects to place their responsibilities before themselves—always. The alabaster monster held onto that tireless devotion to his military at this moment . . . and also acknowledged, perhaps for the first time, the precious value of the individuals he ruled.

The grotesque ache in his chest twisted at the thought of Enigma drifting alone beyond Abendrot’s walls. He violently rejected that desolate image. How could the strong she-wolf be anything but whole, no matter where she walked?

Hesitation turned his limbs to concrete. Then the frost-breathing dragon charged through it. Kershov positioned himself so that he faced Enigma directly, for all purposes “open.” Outwardly “honest.” Fully prepared to deliver nothing but pretty fallacies for her sake. You already suspect something is horribly wrong. Relax, Beta mine. Let me keep you blind a little longer.

“I’ve let the kingdom we pulled together wither and die. That is my mistake: that I became so arrogant and lazy that the soldiers I shepherded deserted rather than stay in a declining pack.” He sighed, and it was an angry sound, catching between his fangs like torn paper. “How would you suggest to make that right, Enigma? Will you punish your Alpha for losing his grip?”