He heard her voice—and a split second later, he glimpsed the bobbing of her little white head in the current, a dove tossed about the chaotic frothing rapids. The only reason she hadn’t been knocked senseless by a boulder yet was probably because the water easily sloshed her tiny frame around like a floating feather, whipping her roughly, yet harmlessly, past obstacles that might shatter her bones. Kershov, on the other paw, was not so lucky. He filled his lungs to call out to her again—and immediately lost all the wind in his sails, ribs smashed abruptly against the still-rough planes of a rock jutting through the violent current. He coughed, struggling to keep himself above water, and winced when every frantic action pulled at the freshly pummeled tissue. Ribs . . . just behind the elbow. Now cracked. But that’ll be sore for weeks . . .

Wolf fur was designed to allow moisture to slick from it like raindrops down a raincoat—but that did little good when the wolf in question was submerged to the muzzle in ice cold river water. Kershov resembled a slick alabaster statue, pelt molded skintight to his muscular silhouette; without the fluff of its usually halo, his face rose above the waves and erupting splashes like some demon of bone: pallid and terrible. Milo appeared to be cutting across the river to meet him as he careened onward; the colossal Czar attempted to control his descent with powerful kicks and twists of his core, talons lashing out to catch on any nearby surface. “Go with the current!” His tone made no room for argument. This was his warlord voice—the one he used to snap troops into line and freeze pawns in place. Black eyes glared with fierce determination toward Milo’s frightened storms. Fearless. Savage. If you follow my orders, little girl, we will live.

Again, the winter dragon purposefully ignored the implications of his dedication to helping Milo. By the laws of survival, he should be focused solely on saving himself. Even now, after dumping them both into this perilous mess, Kershov should have been paddling downstream on his own—because, he realized with a ferocious thump of his heart, the river was carrying them right to Uyaraut. If Milo drowned . . . that had no impact whatsoever on getting to and helping his own pack. No one would ever think to implicate him in Milo’s death, if her drowned corpse ever resurfaced. So why bother churning his legs until they burned, trying to swim closer to her? Why waste his breath barking orders and consolations? Survival meant selfishness, it meant ruthless abandonment of everyone unless it directly suited yourself . . .

And still Kershov kept his gaze on the small wolfess, not allowing himself to blink until they’d finally bumped back into each other and his teeth were in her scruff again.

With a grunt the mighty dragga hauled Milo out of the current as much as he could, wanting to lift her head above the river’s toil. Her exhaustion was obvious; her petite limbs lashed out with decreasing strength, paws beating harmlessly against Ker’s side as he held her. If he had thought her tiny before, it was nothing compared to how fairy-like Milo seemed now. The ivory lass resembled the seed of a dandelion—slender and delicate. “Keep kicking,” Kershov ordered sternly, fangs clenched in her sopping wet ruff. “If you give up now, I swear I will drop you. There’s just a little while to go . . . that’s it.” Indeed, the vicious river had calmed its furious rampage. The explosive force that birthed it had apparently tired itself out; now that it had a path carved for itself, the river continued at a quick but far gentler pace, its deep volume as smooth as the undulations of a gigantic python.