Kershov could not get his breathing under control. Air stabbed in and out of his lungs like a knife, keeping in time with the violent thunder of his heartbeat. A numb, buzzing high sang in his blood and severed his consciousness from his body, as if he were observing this irrational scene from behind a one-way mirror. Mentally, Kershov felt disgusted. His thoughts turned inward and away from the girl's breakable form and the pointless sin of harming her. This is not me, the Alpha stated silently. I do not attack without reason. I do not act on impulse. I do not waste time on empty endeavors. Except . . . it was the frost-born dragon. No faceless stranger lurked at his side, waiting his turn to rip at the little angel. Kershov's jaws had wrested her joints apart; the fangs and claws that thirsted for her flesh belonged to him. Despite the bitter despair of the Ice King's thoughts--the desperate struggle to separate the Ruler he was from the monster within--he was still towering over his victim.

And he could not order his treacherous paws to walk away and leave her be.

As the echo of the bird's heart-wrenching scream faded into his skull, Kershov gradually eased the gruesome snarl from his ragged muzzle. The Secret Beast had rejoiced in that shattering noise--its excitement was what had provoked such an aggressive physical reaction from the Pharaoh's chest cavity--but now it circled away to better observe its prey. Unconquerable hunger never ceased to tear at Ker's stomach, yet he managed to snatch back some of the deadly calm that had smoothed his words when he first spoke to the damsel. His slick tongue slowly wiped faint traces of fresh scarlet from his jowls. A miniscule shiver crept up his spine at the electric taste. Exquisite.

His first guilty thought had been wrong: this was not a meaningless descent into debauchery. Usually, the bone-colored brute considered the advantages and consequence of each carefully planned move. If, say, an enemy were going to attack Abendrot, then Kershov would devise a plot to both eliminate the threat and prevent such a danger from ever bothering his pack again. In this bizarre instance, the peril posed to his army was himself; therefore, as a responsible Alpha, it was Ker's job to do everything in his power to stop himself. He was a creature of logic. An emperor of calculation. The alabaster gangster's instinct in procuring a punching bag to keep his darker desires occupied had been right all along. Now Kershov had to use this diversion, before thoughts of self-loathing and doubt encroached on him again . . .

"You're not counting," the moonlit monster sighed. Snow completely enclosed the cave's entrance so that his voice sounded whisper-close, even while standing a body-length away from the shaking fae. In the dim light filtered through millions of unfeeling snowflakes, Kershov saw the terrified brilliance of the angel's sunlight irises. She . . . she still had some fight in her. That flame in her breast showed no signs of sputtering out like a weak candle any time soon. For her sake, Ker hoped it would only blaze brighter as they continued their game.

He reached out a giant snowshoe paw and shoved her roughly back down to the ground. "There's no point in trying to stand. You cannot fight me, and you cannot run--and if you try, I'll just have to dislocate the rest of your limbs, won't I?" The paw he'd used to push he to the earth rested on her shoulder . . . and slid over the sleekness of her side. "I wasn't joking about counting, Miss. You'll see what I mean."

His talons raked across her ribcage--hard. Like all wolf claws, they were too blunt to immediately draw blood--but then Kershov pressed down with more force, more, nails digging further and further into the she-wolf's flesh as he traced the same path. Outwardly, he might only scratch out some fur or poke some skin . . . the real damage lay beneath the lass's hide, where bruises and ruptured blood vessels would forge map of pain.