There was nothing quite like the sensation of teeth being forcibly ripped from one’s throat. The greatest defense a wolf had against such an attack was the thick fur of his ruff—but beyond that was yielding meat and a network of veins and arteries so precariously precious that to go for this target was to go for the kill. Kershov felt an instantaneous thrill of honest gut-wrenching fear the moment Vladya’s jaws slammed shut on his larynx. An instinctive terror too powerful to deny. The terrible pressure made his blood thunder. Whip-cord muscles rigid with strength felt too soft, too damnably weak when crushed between the serrated edges of diamond-hard daggers. He was breathing through a collar of agony. Tissue and sinew were bending, breaking, bruising, a melting heat spreading like magma up his throat and behind the horrified mask of his ravaged face and all Kershov could do was choke and choke and—

And all at once the killing weight was gone—

For a moment the alabaster gangster could not speak past his pain, afraid that opening his jaws to do more than gasp for air would allow the panicking animal in his chest to howl in anguish. His lonesome obsidian lantern was trained on Vladya’s battered form in purest hatred and betrayal. How could he? How DARE he?!

A seismic growl throbbed at the base of the deathlord’s chest—only to be cut short as his shredded vocal chords spasmed. The Ice King hacked violently, a shudder of revulsion worming up his spine at the sound of his own hot blood spattering wetly in the snow. “You . . . fool . . .” Kershov spat between wracking coughs, entire marble frame shivering with destructive wrath. His once smooth ivory pelt had been chiseled into harsh chips of ice and crimson spikes, a defiled tapestry of brindled gore. No other words managed to escape from his clenching chords. Each attempt at snarl tore away into more pathetic gagging. But no matter—Kenshin was speaking to him. Kenshin, his faithful dog and the only creature in his miserable miniature battlefield that Kershov could rely on . . .

At the mention of Kobato’s imminent death, the frost-born Pharaoh’s black gaze snapped from the writhing maggot at his paws toward the little damsel mere yards away. He anticipated a vicious surge of satisfaction at the sight of her desperate struggles, the visceral hopelessness in her feverish eyes, the mound of steadily darkening snowflakes piled at her abdomen . . . yet Kershov felt nothing.

Nothing. At. All.

Moons ago, years ago, lifetimes ago, the absence of emotion would not have disturbed him. The merciless gangleader had lived most of his life devoid of deep feeling, channeling all the raw energy it took to emote and transforming it into a weapon of unmatched cunning. He had not allowed himself to feel intense anger, jealousy, affection. The only thing he had ever claimed—the only thing he had encouraged in his subjects—was loyalty. And loyalty itself was less an emotion as it was a drive, like hunger, a conscious dedication to a person or a cause. The Kershov who’d ruled the tundra with claws of iron would not have blinked at the picture of his enemy bleeding out in front of him . . . except the blizzard monster was no longer that wolf. He knew the madness of having a soul now, as fragile and empty as that soul was. The part of him destined for hell should have been rejoicing at Kobato’s defeat. He should have been laughing until the last drop of his life flecked the white ground crimson. At last, at last, the final obstacle to his own private victory was as good as slain.

Why wasn’t he laughing. Why didn’t this feel like a victory. His hard coal of a heart was nothing but a flat-line.

Only when the Frozen Emperor beheld Vladya dragging himself brokenly toward his mate did he experience something. It smashed into his chest like a sledgehammer. Loss . . .

Kershov had done everything in his power to make Vladya his subject again. Cracking his skull open and rewiring his mind had been an extreme measure—though one the pallid demon did not regret in the slightest. He thought that programming his soldier like an obedient little robot would ensure his everlasting loyalty. Just like old times. The ganglord and the gangster, master and dog, a team. But the last breathing tie to his past had been sliced by this tiny she-wolf’s gentle smile. She had robbed him of his oldest colleague. The one wolf alive who knew Kershov better than any other. Comrade. Family. Brother.

Not even stealing the words I love you from Kobato before she’d spoken them had helped. The girl would die, his subaltern with her, and still Kershov tasted the bitterness of defeat.

“Save them.” the order scraped up Kershov’s throat. His single fathomless eye speared toward Kenshin, deadly serious. No trace of conflict or the steadily seeping invisible wound carved into his chest. “I don’t care how you do it, who you call. And take the living pup. It’s Abendrot’s now.”