Kershov’s solitary onyx eye widened in equal parts surprise and open admiration when Halina practically dragged herself up the slope to meet him. The femme’s condition was pitiful . . . vulnerable . . . and still vastly improved compared to how deeply Draven’s wicked poison had tortured her. The Ice King knew that the shadowy warrioress still had a long, frustrating path of healing to march through, but he could not crush the fragile flicker of relief that loosened his posture at the sight of Halina bowing before lowering her frame closer to his own. Kahlan had done as she promised: Ker had held onto his soldier. “As spry and lovely as a sapling,” the frigid Emperor returned, faintly amused by the woman’s self-deprecating humor. Silently, Kershov assessed her progress. The achy creaks and snaps of her sinews explained why Halina’s movements remained jerky and careful, while the tender and swelled flesh of her strong face betrayed the poison’s lingering hold. “I will inform the rest of the pack about the nature of your condition, as I am sure you have kept just as quiet while recovering as I have. This has always been an army that protects its own.”

That should have gone without saying—and on some level, Ker understood perfectly well that the valiant she-wolf was too proud a fighter to actually whine about her condition. Nevertheless, Kershov was Alpha; part of his job was to remind those he lead that they would always be safe with him, whether or not they felt that way. And in those freak cases wherein some suicidal fool managed to harm his pawns, the Czar of Bone ensured that Abendrot’s wrath rained down with ruthless, terrifying force—repaying the deed one thousand times over. That was his plan regarding one doomed Draven. Ker couldn’t quite recall what he’d done with the brute that had attacked Halina after the pair had limped back to Abendrot . . .

He’d blacked out with rage shortly after burying his fangs in Draven’s face.

“I do hope he’s enjoying himself right about now,” the snowy dragga sighed as he moved his gaze from Halina’s noble blue stare and out toward the horizon. “He will never know another moment of peace.”

Kershov recognized the scent of the young male (Amias) trotting up the hillside before he could recognize his visage. One of Verity’s sons. The once bubbly—now hauntingly broken—healer had slunk back to the army with her brood a little while ago, and Ker had gladly given the odd family refuge. Every so often the alabaster gangster caught one of their mingled colognes threaded throughout the forest or skirting the edges of the border. It wasn’t precisely a “soft spot” that allowed Kershov to tolerate the litter filtering in and out of his kingdom (for the King had no warm affection to speak of) but a special regard for Verity kept his jaws closed. If this young gentleman planned on offering his services, the massive arctic monster wasn’t about to throw him out.

“Hello there, boy. What did Madame Verity name you?” The greeting was curt, not cold. All the while Kershov’s lonesome obsidian lantern dissected the youngster’s every minute gesture. Uncertainty hindered his movements, but not so much that he appeared overtly anxious or out of place; his features betrayed a muted intelligence, so there was definitely a brain in that skull, yet no observant remark or witty response clipped from his muzzle upon entering the meeting; his pale sage eyes . . . and here was were the frost-breathing devil took pause. What Ker had understood as wariness merely served as curtain to obscure what really ruled the brute’s mind—a vast soulless emptiness.

Verity’s son was a walking hollow vessel. He approached Kershov and Halina cautiously because he hadn’t yet figured out a way to portray himself; the boy was like a living mirror.

How perfect.

The last warrior Kershov had ever known to be so flawlessly spotless had been Fallacy—and her personality had been carved out by a lifetime of merciless conditioning. This inexperienced whelp had just been born this way: a perfect blank canvas, waiting for his next role. Kershov knew instantly that he had to keep him. Such a creature offered itself well to the adaptable duty of spying. “Don’t act like a stranger, pup. If you want to be part of the military, act like . . .”

And that was when a silent fist slithered up his throat and gripped Kershov’s vocal chords in a chokehold. Words gasped and died before they had to chance to crawl to safety in his jaws, which parted slightly in shock as an impossible mirage blossomed at the forefront of his vision. His entire thought process ceased, as cleanly as if someone had severed his spine. Even as the blood-splashed lamia’s rich voice poured into the air Kershov was unable to move, unable to speak, unable to respond, so utterly and sickeningly astonished that every cell in his body burned as if trapped in a nightmare. This could not be his long-lost heart, his precious puppet-turned-queen-turned-mate—not the wolfess who had haunted his darkest nightmares with her wickedly flashing eyes—not the she-demon whose absence had driven a Pharaoh headfirst into a madness he saw no way to escape. Not possible. Fantasies were not possible.

Except . . . the heated sensation of her silken fur meshing intimately with his own immaculate coat felt so real that Kershov shivered from the touch. Blue blizzard flames roared to life in the deep bowl of his pelvis and sent a storm into his abdomen. When the white-and-scarlet vixen tucked herself brazenly against his expansive chest, Kershov lowered his cranium to cradle her closer, one foreleg sweeping possessively over her shoulders. He buried his muzzle in the lushness of her nape. Entrails and midnight-blooming flowers and danger and sex. The shadows that had tormented Ker’s brain seemed to seep slowly away, no match for the deadly anchor to reality that his other half provided. Gradually, his shuddering frame relaxed back into stony stillness. And all is right with the world.