The girl spoke with a voice as soft as the down of a baby bird, as if a single shout might crush her. Kershov did not ease his rigid, imposing posture, allowing her to wilt and wither under the unrelenting power of his hard obsidian stare. This she-wolf was no child . . . and yet her windows—a bizarre shade of pink the Ice King had never seen before—glimmered with an untainted innocence and fragile honesty. Her painfully genuine nature instinctively infuriated him. Every cell in Kershov’s body rejected this weak creature with her slumping shoulders and her quiet apologetic lyrics and her innocuous doe eyes. This blinding gentleness agitated his inherent savagery like a needle in his paw—demanding to be punished or destroyed. Ker was right to be interested in her lonesome status—this young creature had absolutely no business wandering off by herself. The very fact that she still lived, breathed, cowered before him was an affront to nature and all that the winter dragon had struggled to grow up with. He found his onyx lanterns growing darker, lids narrowing to turn his eyes into thin black blades, and the bridge of his snout wrinkled with the shadow of a snarl. You have no idea how lucky you are, lass. Not because he’d saved her from his own trap—no, Kershov had never intended to actually harm the fae. She was lucky because she’d survived this long without a damn brain in her head or a bone in her spine, and her existence spat in the face of all the hardship he himself had endured just for the right to draw breath. It took another deep breath through is nose to compose himself and remind him why he’d even bothered to glance the she-wolf’s way in the first place—why he was wasting his time conversing instead of leaving her to some other predator that would hurt her rather than string her along as he was doing.

This was supposed to be for fun. This was an exercise to prove to himself he could be civil and polite even when his inner beast howled for blood. If he could march away after this pointless encounter without tearing the sheila’s head from her shoulders, then Kershov would win his own personal game.

“There are plenty of scarier things waiting in this land.” It might have sounded like a direct threat, had Kershov not gruffly attempted to make it a more comforting utterance. He made a show of appearing awkward, as if reconsidering the harsh way he’d approached the femme. “It pays to always be alert, especially with the way things have changed recently. Even the meadows you’re familiar with might shift beneath your very paws in a blink.” The exact phenomenon had happened to Kershov not too long ago. His ears flattened as he remembered his first meeting with Milo—and how the idyllic field of flowers they spoke in had suddenly shattered with the force of a ferocious earthquake, a river rising up to swallow them both. “Nice to meet you, Lovella—though the circumstances are not quite as pleasant. I am called Kershov. Tell me, do you have a pack? A family that protects you?” Surely the strawberry princess had grown up with a suffocating family to be so pathetic and ignorant of the reality surrounding her. For a moment, Ker’s silent rage became pity. It was not Lovella’s fault her original faction had so utterly failed her. If she had someone like him to watch over her . . . this repugnant weakness would be bled from her within a month. That . . . or she would break, which would inevitably happen if she waited around long enough alone in Blossom Forest.

“I cannot say how often rockslides happen on these mountains, as they are so new.” The white emperor mused thoughtfully, lowering himself into a seated position. In this pose his head still rose above Lovella’s, but hopefully he appeared less intimidating. He still wanted to keep up the act of “concerned older gentleman,” after all. “As far as other dangers . . . are you quite serious? There’s war, monstrous wolves with no morals or impulse control . . . you’re not from Blossom Forest, this much is obvious. And I cannot help but wonder about your origins. Your plans. Certainly you were not looking for a home here?” Kershov indicated the jagged rocks and looming boulders with a flippant sweep of his tail, staring at Lovella critically. “Come, girl. Be honest with me. What did you hope to find in these mountains?”

A Valentine-shaped marking splashed across her face—another odd aspect of her appearance. Ker decided that she was rather striking for a female, though he personally felt no sensual draw toward her. Other brutes might, perhaps . . . maybe even a few she-wolves. It stunned him how common attraction toward delicacy was, although this attraction could often be worked out in his favor. If she lived in his pack . . . Lovella might prove to be an incredibly useful addition.