Kershov had planned out this meeting in his head to the smallest sharp detail. He would hunt for game early in the morning to give him ample time for success, and then bring the fresh still-dripping meat to Athene’s den—her boudoir, of course, because the symbolism of the Alpha greeting the she-wolf in the comfort of her abode spoke of his respect for Athene’s independence. She was no thirsty harlot whimpering and rubbing herself along the threshold of his quarters; the warrioress had made her expectations crystal clear upon their first coupling, and for Kershov to present himself as anything less than professional would be an outright disgrace. Ever the one for decorum, the Pharaoh had plotted to drop his kill at her paws and humbly request entry to her bed. He would wait for the she-gladiator to accept his kill and his advances—their scorching desire for each other slyly masked by their oh-so-subtle game of stud and receptive womb. In the privacy of her room, hidden from prying eyes and with no one to interrupt them, Kershov would deliver upon his promise: the conception of exceptional pups to an exceptional femme. In his mind, few other females possessed traits that so precisely matched his own in terms of physical prowess and ruthless ambition. Instinct—nature itself—drove them together like magnets. Like an inevitable chemical reaction. Entropy forever tumbling forward, a pairing that made so much sense the winter dragon was powerless to deny it. He had crafted such a vision of this meeting . . .

And yet here he stood, no gift to present Athene, stinking of another woman’s lascivious perfume, colossal frame still shivering and radiating heat from the unknown herbs lacing his last meal. A mess. Shameful. The fiery tang of Athene’s righteous anger singed the back of his throat, her ire flickering from her topaz lanterns like dangerous sparks that might burn if Kershov hazarded too close. “If you turned me away, that would be your right.” He thought his voice sounded properly controlled . . . cool . . . calm . . . and yet something inside of him wrenched and roiled—a deadly python constricting his guts to pulp. As much as his own pitiful, deplorable weakness disgusted him, trying to walk away now . . . the notion struck him as pure torture. Worse than pulling his intestines out rope by rope for crows to eat alive. Surely he would smolder to cinders from the inside out if he found no relief—though of course this fate would serve him right. Kershov’s breath still knifed in and out of him in pained, staccato grunts as he held Athene’s glare with tight black eyes barely holding back emotion. “However, I promise you that my previous . . . exercise has not depleted my ability to give you what you desire. If anything . . .” Here the winter dragon swallowed, his voice dropped into a deep grating timber that seemed to resonate through his skeleton and vibrate the air between them. “It has whetted my appetite for the main course.”

The delicately brindled brutale made her disapproval scathingly obvious. Kershov dipped his cranium, prepared to suffer her rejection—when her teeth hooked into his scruff, tugging him to the entrance of her den.

If he’d been on fire before, he was a volcano now. The alabaster gangster did not hesitate to follow Athene—he marched in right on her heels, practically breathing down her neck, mere inches away from salivating like a common dog. He could not wait. Not a single second more. But in his experience, faes conceived best when their pleasure was peaked—and so without the obstacle of words the massive moonwhite monster butted Athene firmly enough with his head to push her onto her side on the floor of her cozy earth-lined room. A ferocious snarl ripping from his throat would drown out any barks of protest; a gigantic paw planted firmly on her flank to pin her to the dirt would stop her from leaping back to her paws. Twin pools of obsidian flickered up to meet her flaming suns, and then his ragged muzzle was pushing impatiently past the downy fluff of her tail to directly nudge the secret blossom hidden beneath. He pressed his nose to the edges of her heavenly gates, inhaling her scent, allowing those invisible chemical signals to drive him further into a passionate frenzy. Athene smelled incredible . . . extraordinary . . . and Kershov could not give a single fuck if this perception had anything to do with the drugs still swimming in his veins. He parted serrated jaws to unleash his tongue—running the slick pink muscle up the full length of Athene’s slit before swirling it in a maddening figure-eight pattern that he hoped would have her squirming and dripping wet by the time he concluded. Aided by his own warm saliva and her pooling nectar, the blizzard monster was able to open his mouth even wider to better slide his tongue into the very depths of Athene’s exquisite delicacy. A deep, throaty moan shook his vocal cords. He tasted every inch of those silken walls he could possibly reach; upon drawing his face back, a string of fluid followed his lolling tongue to quiver break between them like the thread of a spider’s web.

“Enough.” Whether the Emperor referred to the limits of his fortitude or the state of Athene’s was impossible to tell. In the dark of the cave, his mask resembled a hellish skull, all harsh white lines and the bottomless pits of his eyes. If Athene had not already rolled to facilitate his mounting, then Kershov would assist her in doing so—with teeth and muscle if necessary. Never enough to hurt—simply a show of masculine eagerness, an overwhelming and all-consuming desire to have her NOW. His hips were bucking before he even properly found his purchase; once he’d successfully pinpointed his mark, stroking and probing until he’d properly sheathed himself, the ivory warrior set in motion his promise . . . aggressively, tirelessly, moaning Athene’s name into the darkness of her boudoir as if that might release him from the agony setting his viscera aflame.