Kershov groaned through his release, a violent shudder rippling through his colossal physique until he collapsed upon Athene like a fallen marble statue, still sheathed firmly inside her. His muscular forelegs, which had been clamped around her flanks nearly hard enough to bruise, gradually released their brutal hold . . . he slid his stilts up and down her sides as if to quiet a tense filly, smoothing her mussed brindle pelt as if that would undo the aggression he’d pummeled her with. Exhalations escaped Ker’s lungs in great panting gasps—the breaths of a marathon runner—but Athene’s ribs barely rose, as calm and composed as could be. The alabaster gangster already felt ashamed for his uninvited advances; his lady gladiator’s obvious lack of excitement lanced through him worse than any verbal lashing. Had she not enjoyed herself at all? He’d thought the eager responses of her body were synonymous were her desire . . . yet Athene remained eerily silent underneath him, more like a sculpture herself than a living, breathing force of nature. Slowly, carefully, the Alpha dismounted her, lifting from her spine with as much grace as his exhausted, quivering body would allow. By now, Kershov’s maddening lust had been mostly sated—but sensitivity still wracked his frame, and he hissed in a breath at the sensation of sliding from the warm walls that had embraced him so intimately.

“Athene . . .” He had no idea what he wanted to say. Past her name, words failed him, drying up and crumbling bitterly on his tongue. When he lifted guarded onyx windows to her honey pools, the coldness there struck him like a slap across the face. Kershov deserved this detached attitude. The Ice King deserved her teeth snapping punishingly on his muzzle—for using her like a common harlot, for daring to come to her to deal with the curse that witch had placed on him. He had made a terrible, unforgivable mistake . . . and the sting of his lapse in judgement, his weakness, burned him to the core. Athene’s voice—still so poised and graceful despite what she’d endured—wounded him.

“No, of course not. I have never thought of you as a mere doll, and it was never my intention to treat you as such.” Empty syllables. The damage had already been done. Kershov wanted to sink into the humid darkness of her den, to melt and ooze into the dirt. He was lower than a slug. Unworthy to be called her Regent. Her boudoir smelled thickly of arousal and sex, pheromones sweet as perfume on his tongue. And twisted in with that . . . he detected Athene’s anger, her hurt, like an unexpected spice buried in a dish he’d sunk his fangs into. He dipped his head—as businesslike as he could manage. “I . . . I’ll leave you in peace now. May our efforts have promoted a fortuitous conception.”

The white warrior gave Athene a final longing glance, and then he was gone, creeping from her den and running through the crisp night air, hoping the breeze off the ocean would wash the sin from his pelt.