Her speech rolled eloquently from her maw in a manner Kershov had never heard before—or at least, never heard before seriously. He’d imitated that high-court dialogue a few times in the past when he felt like toying with his prey; however, the quiet damsel on the other side of the fence seemed as if she’d been born to talk in such a way. It wasn’t an act. That novelty had the ivory warrior slowly pulling back his fractured smile and replacing it with an unreadable, thoughtful expression. Ker had always been a sucker for politeness.

“At least you’re not a foolish suicidal maniac,” the snow dragon purred. It was impossible to tell from his frosted tone of voice whether or not he was teasing the woman. Concepts like “dignity” and “honor” usually died horrible deaths in war-torn wastelands like the arctic tundra. There was simply no room for them, not when your innards might be clawed out at any minute. But Kershov kept his mouth shut, not wishing to crush the she-wolf’s spirit before she’d even stepped foot in his army.

Kershov waited for his guest to finish speaking, not allowing his tongue to wag until it was clear she was waiting for his next move. Imperceptibly, his onyx lantern narrowed. “I like that you are willing to step up to whatever faction is open to you, stranger. It’s always useful to have a flexible wolf running in the pack. Unfortunately, I will need an explanation for your failure to adequately submit. Is it because you cannot . . .” He leaned closer, fangs glittering over the silken canvas of her hide. “. . . Or will not?”

Tension sang from her body like energy crackling down a bowstring. She bowed before him, respecting him in a gesture that other packs would readily accept, yet the glacial gladiator wondered what could possibly prevent her from rolling right onto her spine. Kershov had welcomed soldiers who offered him less during his time as King . . . but what could he say? Sometimes he just wanted to play with fresh meat before he devoured it.