He was so . . . cute! Innocent! Darling! Kira giggled—not a sultry, champagne-bubble noise to stir the male’s guts or fizz through his blood, but an honest-to-goodness burst of flustered nerves, sudden unexpected anxiety hopping around in her stomach. Just as she realized how foolish she sounded, the snowbird attempted to curb her inner butterflies, biting her lip and holding her breath. It did no good. Fluttering wings only beat harder, more wildly, tickling her ribs, and she snorted out a more raucous laugh that nearly had her doubling over. Maple eyes watered at the corners, features pinched into an expression of helpless mirth. “I—I—I’m sorry, I just—” Her voice shook, bouncing with hilarity. Drizzt had not reacted aversely to her touch, so she happily draped her neck across his shoulders and leaned into him—needing his support to remain standing rather than rolling on the ground. “It is lovely, you know, to be chased for once. I just . . . this is too good to be true!” She rubbed her face up and down the thick waves of his ruff, smoothing it in one direction with her muzzle before stirring the cream hairs the other way. Her caresses stirred something new into his cologne she had not noticed before—either because his personal scent was so delicious or because his eyes had distracted her so completely. The earthy richness of damp mud. The tang of fallen leaves rotting into the soil. Blossoms that thrive in humidity and densely filtered sunshine. Kirastasia pushed her nose directly into the hollow between his shoulder blades and breathed deeply, nuzzling him. “You . . . smell like home.” Her tongue planted the most chaste of kisses against his parted fur. In a softer voice, giggles now dissolved, she murmured once more: “You smell like my old home . . . where I was born. Malignant Felicity.”

Abruptly the pallid princess drew away, as if withdrawing herself from the burning agony of a white-hot coal. A lopsided smile that could not quite balance itself wobbled on her lips. “What are the odds, right?! What a small world!” Kirastasia could not name what this realization made her feel. She missed her birth pack, surely . . . it was somewhere she might have ruled, had her heart been ambitious enough to seize the crown that awaited her. But her father had chosen to use his little pawn differently, and each time Kira attempted to reintegrate herself back into Malignant’s mysterious woods the fit seemed worse and worse: herself a puzzle piece with warped edges and ever-shifting curves. It was never the same place she remembered wandering in as a young lass. The throne changed ownership so often it made her head spin. Eventually, Kirastasia understood what had happened . . . the territory had rejected her, just as she’d been rejected everywhere else—explicitly or otherwise. She no longer “belonged” there; she had not thought of Malignant Felicity as “home” for moons. And here came sweet, beautiful Drizzt, with his starlight portals and his adorable innocence—wearing the mark of Malignant like a stain upon that flawless eggshell pelt.

She wasn’t . . . angry. Not disgusted, either—not even slightly. Perhaps . . . afraid? Because if Drizzt were a soldier of the kingdom she once danced in at night and hunted during the day, maybe he would come to sense that Kirastasia wasn’t the One for him. She would fail to fit with him as she failed at that pack. Her heart fluttered fearfully. The vacillating grin upon her maw fixed itself stiffly in place. No . . . if that were to happen, Kira would make herself fit. Already her heart reached greedily for the knight it had only just met. Mine. Forever. He said so: SOULMATE.

“So . . . chasing. I might enjoy that.” The fishnet punkette ordered her banner to wag—and found with delight that this did not require much effort. Her body appeared to be just as willing as her mind to push through its unpleasant pall and dive right back into the exciting present. Gazing directly into Drizzt’s glorious lanterns—amazed that their brightness did not blind her—Kirastasia scooted closer . . . until her paws had inched over the cremero’s toes, holding them in place. Her neck arched so that she might position her muzzle directly in front of his, their noses a whisker-length apart. “Give me to the count of five, handsome. Then we’ll see if you can catch me.” And with a saucy yip the ivory damsel pivoted away—her tail swatting playfully against Drizzt’s face as she turned—and darted into the forest.