The Kalak oozed sarcasm the way some plants ooze nectar, acid humor dripping from her smile. From another wolf that irreverent attitude would be unacceptable; sarcasm was the lowest form of humor used by classless curs and skeevy slags when they had no other cleverness to rely on. But for Kari . . . her sardonic nature acted as a sort of distraction, a safe veil she could peek from as she teased Kershov—and the rest of her new packmates. He knew the maned wolfess wasn’t nearly as foolish as some might first believe, what with her flirty quips and dreamy earth-toned eyes. Kari was smart. She knew when to save her skin, when to back down, and how to slyly avoid danger—all while exuding the sexuality of a feline in heat.

She posed for him once, pausing just long enough for any male to peruse the graceful contours of her limber frame. Then, all feminine confidence, Kari slipped around him in a tight caressing circle—completing her revolution with a brush of her tail under the King’s chin. Kershov enjoyed her brazen display with the quiet dignity of a royal at a feast; he inhaled her scent as her fur slicked against him but nothing more, allowing the saucy fae to draw away where she felt comfortable. My, my . . . this one doesn’t make a secret of whom she plans to bed.

He decided he wouldn’t mind dancing with this one. She’d surely give him enough exercise to leave them both panting and breathless on the ground.

Still no sound escaped him until Kari strode closer once more, her tone when she purred “king” making a low chuckle rumble from Ker’s throat. “Frekari. Thank you for the privilege.” A lilt of irony colored the arctic monster’s words, but not to cut the lady down; rather, he aimed to show her that he was every bit able to play along with the games she liked to play. He’d address her as “Kari” in front of the pack up until the point he wanted to annoy her, or the ess deigned to share that title on her own.

Without shifting his body, paws still firmly planted on that line just before the water began, Ker turned his skull so that he might also murmur into Frekari’s rounded ear—the two vargs now cheek to cheek. “Anything else you might be withholding, Madame Frekari? A different alias? A talent or two? Or do I have to earn those secrets?”

And here he would clamp his teeth at the base of her aud—gently, never intending to harm, but rather excite the nerves embedded there and send a shiver straight down her spine. He’d tug, ever so lightly, a teasing display of what he’d try if it meant plumbing the things Kari kept clandestine. “I’m a fair Alpha,” the frost-born ghost whispered, in guttural tones, fangs still skimming the vast shell of her ear. "I might reward cooperation with a little cooperation of my own.”