“Surely, maybe to the appealing eye; I am alone. But who’s to say I am? Certainly others would take a closer inspection, now wouldn’t you think?”

Perhaps this incomprehensible, innocuous riddle would have different males smiling vaguely in confusion, playing along with the little she-wolf in hopes to win her good favor. Not Kershov. Without being too obvious, as if he were merely taking in the scenery, the massive monster scanned the horizon for any signs of other vargs lurking about—betrayed by an odd rustle of grass or blossoms—while his senses sorted through a tapestry of scents with surgical precision: nearly a hundred species of flower, yellow pollen, the fresh greenness of grass, Milo’s fur, dry dirt and the old trail of a deer. He waited for the wind to shift and carry the signature of a hidden stranger to his nares. Milo had not struck him as a deceptive creature. She did not even appear to possess the intelligence to deceive in the first place. But her playful words had suggested that she was not alone, and that sometimes meant an ambush was waiting somewhere for Kershov to make a wrong move.

After a few seconds the cold Czar finally concluded that no such ambush lay crouching in the shadows . . . at least, none that he could detect. He turned his bottomless black stare to rest on Milo’s petite features, finding no evil intentions within those bright stormy pools. Her childish personality struck him as both a relief and a curiosity. All wolves who retained some scrap of innocence fascinated him, since anything warm and good in Kershov had been destroyed or hardened a long, long time ago.

“I suppose if you were alone before, you are no longer.” He shifted so that his weight listed to one side, even more relaxed than before. The fairy-sized sheila was appraising him, Ker could tell; inwardly the Emperor wondered what conclusions she’d drawn. Clearly she wasn’t afraid of him—or not afraid enough to excuse herself or start acting like a nervous fawn. A squeeze of pity wrapped around his heart. Oh, the poor dear . . . I am not a wolf you want to trust right away, little one. A quiet smirk tugged at the handsome half of his face. If he leaned forward enough, he would be able to press his snout to Milo’s forehead . . .

“I can’t say I’ve met someone like you before. You are . . . refreshing.” With surprising delicacy, coming from a beast with such sharp fangs, Kershov plucked a single sunlight-yellow flower from its bed. Slowly, not wanting to startle the lass, the arctic gangster shifted forward until he could place the brilliant blossom in the crook where one of Milo’s ears met her skull, balancing its petals against the pristine whiteness of her fur.