When Kershov heard his name sung over the high forest canopy, he took pause, cranium cocked curiously to the side as he tried to place the caller’s title. The notes were familiar . . . and then he seized it. Havok: the bitch responsible for the permanent darkness in one eye socket. Despite the bitterness attached to that most inconvenient of wounds, the arctic Alpha couldn’t help a wry grin from pulling at the wholesome half of his mutilated muzzle. It wasn’t often that he chose to keep someone who dared challenge him in the first place; however, Havok had shown remarkable strength in their battle, something worth saving and perfecting. Ker had gladly fixed her injuries as his limited war-medicine knowledge allowed. Unfortunately, shortly after she’d improved, Havok had inexplicably vanished.

That wasn’t exactly an action Kershov looked upon lightly. In fact, he wondered why the wolfess had called his name at all. Had she forgotten what the Ice King did to soldiers that left their post without reason . . . ?

The setting sun made long, stark shadows on the leave-strewn ground as Kershov loped toward the border. His ghostly form warped in and out of light, simultaneously glaring white and mysteriously veiled as he traveled. The road he used differed from that of the first Abendrot wolf to greet Havok—so Ker had to pause in blank surprise upon entering the scene, bottomless black pool drinking in the lovely sight of Scarlet Nights. Her scent, which hadn’t touched the path he’d just exited, brushed his nares at once. Then the tundra dragga blinked, and the spell his mate put over him without knowing momentarily emptied from his mind.

“Yes, she would be Abendrot’s Alphess: Scarlet Nights.” Kershov’s voice was blunt and cool: a chiseled block of ice dropped resolutely on the table. “What about you, Havok? Do you return as recruit, or visiting stranger? Not to sway your answer, but I’m not in the mood for entertaining outsiders.”

The frost-breathing poltergeist didn’t adopt the same aggressive stance as his Czarina, but his impassive expression should have warned Havok not to be too colloquial.

“I’d sentence you to ragdoll duty, but it looks as if you’re still suffering from old wounds, yes?” There was too much taunting venom in the Ice King’s voice to let anyone think that pity or mercy were moving him to spare Havok the same violent treatment Marx had received after he deserted. Ridicule sizzled on his tongue, single obsidian eye narrowed appraisingly at Havok’s much healed but still-battered form. He wanted her to feel small, to feel ashamed. Yet this cruelty was a perverse sort of kindness—if it came down to a choice between harsh words or shredding teeth, Kershov assumed Havok would pick the fleeting pang of words instead. She had long ago proven herself strong enough to stand up out of her own ashes. Humiliation might burn her momentarily and then evaporate to leave her ferocious soul bare. That was punishment enough, he thought.