Vladya sensed what Kershov was about to do and began to struggle in vain, frantic cries of protest shredding from his chest as his heinously bloodied claws scraped pointlessly against the monarch’s thick fur. He couldn’t afford another night drowning in delusions. The battered beast needed clarity, he needed strength, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to—

The smell of blood bloomed in the air. Kobato’s. WHO THE FUCK HAD HARMED HER??? Vladya’s pupils contracted into stricken pinpoints of rage. He planted all four paws against Kershov’s tense underbelly and tore himself out from under the Czar—numb to the reflexive clutch of claws and the too-late scrape of teeth attempting to grasp his throat—driven beyond thought toward his damsel in distress. Kershov barely restrained his mad marionette in time. Vladya had taken two ground-devouring strides before the arctic gangleader jumped onto his spine and slammed him bodily back into the dirt. The two white wolves exploded into a singular entity of screaming teeth. Snarls and ear-splitting high-pitched screeches of pain and fury stabbed like shards of glass into the yielding night air. Fresh red war paint oozed from ugly lacerations and transformed canvases of snow into indistinguishable bloodied bandages.

“SUBMIT.” Kershov’s booming command thundered from his chest like the declaration of a god. He and Vladya rolled like a pair of pale crocodiles, battling for dominance, talons digging viciously into the ground and each other. Vlad roared wordlessly in response. He was past speech. Past sanity and self-preservation. Let this heartless tyrant shatter every bone in his body—he would not stop moving until he’d saved Kobato.

Somewhere in another dimension Kobato was crying out. Her righteous ringing lyrics were lava in his soul. A flare of flame and a great crackle of gunpowder. Save her. Skin yourself if you have to BUT FUCKING SAVE THE GIRL!

Tundra soldiers were taught not to believe in “destiny” or “fate,” so when Kershov’s searching fangs finally speared into the ragged flesh of Vladya’s throat he knew he could blame nothing but pitiless chance. The effect was immediate. The frost-born Pharaoh unleashed a seismic growl and contracted every steel muscle in his sculpted jaw . . . squeezing . . . suffocating . . . Vladya felt his trachea collapse and the violent beat of blood in his brain and the encroaching blackness that slithered ink-like into the corners of his searing vision—

Gleaming pyrite flickered and dulled—

“She’s ruined you,” Kershov hissed, and it was a demonic supernatural whisper that seemed to squirm behind Vladya’s eyes like a pile of slimy maggots. When had he released Vlad’s neck from his death grip? Why? The warboy’s windpipe gave an acid rasp, unable now even to spit back a scathing rumble. The merciless Alpha had placed both huge paws on his chest—the weight of a planet—and was purposefully burying his claws into the freshly opened trenches striping Vlad’s bruised breastbone. Agony. “Do you hear her calling for you, you worthless wretch? I could have cleaved weakness from your useless carcass, and instead you fucking find it on purpose—”

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

Vladya turned his head weakly toward the blessed sound, trying with every tortured cell in his body to focus on his valkyrie’s song. Some bastard was holding her down. He had to get to her. He had to get up . . .

“Ko . . .” he sighed, a universe of love orbiting that single syllable. Kershov choked on the resounding noise boiling deep in his vocal chords. He ripped his obsidian stare from Vladya’s moonstruck visage and speared it toward Kobato as she twisted pathetically in the grass. How could this—this—THING command his pawn? How DARE she rob him of his property. The scheming, filthy, revolting little slut.

The winter King opened his mutilated maw to order Kenshin to silence the bitch, but his brindled assassin killed the words before he could speak. "She is pregnant." He sensed Vlad’s already irregular breath hitch. No. No no no no. He would not stand for another complication. This would be fixed—immediately.

“Is that so?” The sound creeping from between Ker’s tightly clenched daggers might have qualified as a purr . . . if a tangible serrated edge of murder hadn’t pierced its lower register. “Goodness, you two, I don’t know who to be surprised at more: the innocent waif or the sexless cur. They are his, aren’t they Miss Kobato?” Cruel humor dripped from each vicious word. “Let’s open you up and make sure—”

He would have continued that statement, if his jugular weren’t currently seized in Vladya’s entire array of ivories. The dragon had embraced his last trembling vestige of strength and aimed for this precious split-second opportunity, channeled his heart unerringly into sawing through the fur and skin and meat that protected Kershov’s most vulnerable pulse. Time slowed to a crawl. The night sky above congealed into solid pitch.

My how the leaves have fucking turned.