Eyes of hellfire red seared across the space between them and sent the snowbird’s heart racing. His portals were windows into the underworld itself, boiling pools of lava that gleamed with sin and savagery; the bands of color woven through his cape resembled gradations of flame, and Kirastasia had to wonder how snow did not transform into rain where he stood. As soon as he mentioned her neck, voice brimstone and smoke, she recalled the sharp sting of his fangs buried in her scruff—the sudden weight of him draped heavily over her spine—the rough dig of claws down her sides, holding her tightly, owning her with the same mastery one might show a terrified rabbit. For a split second, Kira had been prey. His prey. The memory made the muscles in her abdomen clench and an acid jet of adrenalin spike through her blood.

But instead of throwing herself at the Alphas feet and begging him to take her right there in the snow, Kira held her crown high and fearlessly pranced closer until she was by Lucifer’s side, her slender legs effortlessly matching the pace he set as he began to walk. Her fluffy tassel had not lowered itself from its flying position over her back—always the cocky little filly. “What station?” she huffed, blowing air out the side of her velveteen jowls. “You mean being the powerless heiress of a half-dead bloodline? Nothing’s changed. Although, I would much rather live in a castle populated by subjects . . . even if they aren’t mine.” No trace of bitterness of challenge colored her sunlit lyrics, her words still pouring over themselves like warm water in a pebbled brook. The fishnet punkette had seen plenty of opportunities to claim her throne. When Queens had disappeared the first couple of times, Devil had filled the void of power; when Devil disappeared, Carnival stepped in. Each time Kirastasia had watched the shift with wide, interested eyes . . . and kept to herself. As much as the title of “Empress” appealed to her, the responsibility that came with it curdled in her veins like poison. As long as Malignant was dead, she was free to traverse to and fro from its borders and return without a problem. If she were Alphess, she’d be expected to stay here. And take care of things. Ew.

“Improving my station . . .” She mused under her breath, drawing her gaze away from his beauty for just a moment. Only when he mentioned Lucaya did the damsel’s luminous lanterns snap back toward Lucifer’s visage. God, but he was so fun to look at. She wished he would stop talking and just screw her into the ground already. “Lucaya? Oh, our resident raven princess is doing just fine. She’s badly beaten, of course, but she’ll live. Terribly proud creature. I offered to clean her wounds, but she declined.” A pout tugged prettily at the corners of her lips. Perhaps the pale girl had been too subtle with her flirting; Lucaya had mostly avoided her advances—the innuendos as well as the half-serious attempts to help. “I’m no healer, you may as well know. My talents lie . . . elsewhere.” And here her stare slid none-too subtly toward his haunches before flicking back to the front.