Hours from now, they would be tangled in a panting, sweating knot—limbs locked lovingly around passionately writhing bodies, fur slick with the moisture of their exercise, blood roaring like a forest fire through burning veins. Dirt would smudge itself into their fur like the markings of a primal ritual, tying them to the earth as they joined themselves in its womb. She’d decorate his floor with her desperate claw marks—talons raking themselves against the floor to mirror the ecstasy he sought to destroy her with. And he would decorate her in a similar way . . . for his nails dug relentlessly into the smoothness of her copper flanks, anchoring himself firmly to her flesh, and both of them would nip and nuzzle and rip with equal parts fury and worship until blood beaded on their canvases and smeared itself with the loamy war paint streaking their sides. Kershov would find that the Iberian queen possessed plentiful, potent knowledge of lovemaking . . . exotic twists of her hips and undulations of her spine that would have him snarling viciously into the satin nape of her neck even as he hammered her with merciless thrusts. The fiery she-wolf would not taste like Scarlet Nights when he explored the sweetness of her ambrosia, for she was not stained with blood and death the way the Demonican Empress had been. She would not feel like Athene when he mounted her, for the russet phoenix lacked the concrete muscle that coiled under the brindled warrioress’s pelt. This conquest shone unlike any other he had danced with—a different constellation sparkling in a sky populated by only the most brilliant of stars—because Kershov would not lay with just anyone. All females he chose to court were in some way exquisite. Unique. Astonishing. Strong. And though the Ethiopian damsel held no similarities to his other partners in terms of her physical assets, her mind stimulated him just as powerfully as any addictive aphrodisiac.

But this explosion of arousal would not happen immediately. Kershov did not anticipate it happening at all—so once they had finished, collapsed and beyond the point of exhaustion in his den, his mind (delirious with post-coital bliss) would struggle to understand what had just occurred. He would chalk it up to masculine energy frantically requiring release after days of trying to understand the changes in Blossom Forest. He would wonder if the female had poisoned him somehow, insidiously crumbling his inhibitions. And he would immediately begin plotting when he could next see her again.

But for any of this to occur, Kershov still had to meet the spark-born fae. And he did so unexpectedly—by catching a trace of an intruder crawling toward his den, and then seeing this intrude face-to-tail waiting for him where he bedded.

Massive paws sculpted for marching over snow stopped dead a few yards from his cave. There was no mud or foliage to flag an intruder’s passing, nowhere for paws to imprint themselves or limbs to carelessly bend a branch. Yet Kershov smelled the unknown fae as if she’d brushed by him while slinking into his bedroom. Hackles spiked to attention. Ears swiveled forward as his ruined mask deformed further into a murderous expression of rage, harsh lines cutting into the intimidating handsomeness of his façade. He narrowed his eyes until they were blade-sharp, twin obsidian scimitars slicing toward the dark opening before him. A low rumble began to resonate in his chest. Surely the female could feel the subterranean sound throbbing in her bones . . . yet she did not emerge from where Kershov knew her to be hiding. If possible, this made him even angrier. Did she think this was an ambush? Was she so blindly, ridiculously arrogant as to think she was safe for having made it this far? The Ice King resolved to backtrack her path toward his den after he dealt with her; surely she had discovered a weakness in the wall that his troops had not properly marked, or otherwise overlooked. She must have skirted the beaches and dipped herself in the ocean to mask her progress . . . maybe she’d traversed the network of tunnels that wound beneath the land’s surface? She couldn’t have bribed her way in: Kershov detected no other Uyaraut musk, and he had full confidence in the loyalty of his subalterns. He began stepping cautiously closer . . . head lowered and jowls pulled back to reveal shimmering ivory daggers. His tail slashed the air behind him.

“I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here . . . but I anticipate a very good explanation for why you’ve intruded upon my territory and my den. It would be wise to make good use of your tongue before I tear it out and feed it to you inch by inch.”

Lyrics hissed with the chill of deep winter as they grated from his throat. In the shadow of evening his immaculate alabaster coat still glimmered like the shape of a specter; his furious eyes speared into the darkness of the den, adjusting, until he caught a flash of auburn. A step closer. Closer. His shoulders had entered the mouth of his sanctuary, and at last he could fully see what awaited him. To the right, the corpse of a rabbit: flayed into delicate strips and fragrant with herbs that made his mouth water—to his silent chagrin. And to the left . . . a stranger, her fur the hue of sunrise, with her tail up and her haunches pointed directly at his impassive face. Two delicacies offered up on a silver platter. The scent of meat and of lust poured thick as honey into his senses. The growl vibrating in his vocal cords stilled to a dangerous quiet.

“Dinner and dessert?” Kershov’s voice was still deadly cold, prickling with frost. His colossal bulk utterly blocked the only exit, effectively trapping the wolfess inside. But a note of true curiosity had stolen the promise of death and he patiently awaited the femme’s reply.