Her invitation—abrupt, caustic, warning—drew Kershov into her den as if she’d greeted him with enthusiastic words of passion. Not hesitating for a second, the massive Emperor ducked through the entrance, his irises dilating to better discern shapes in the shadow. Before his eyesight had fully adjusted, Ker made sure to drop his meal offering as close to where he sensed Athene as possible. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Madame. I mean our progeny no harm.” His vision could just make out the hostile hunch of her shoulders, the flattening of her ears upon her skull . . . and . . . could that be . . . ?

Antlers . . . great curved branches of bone, rearing high above the she-wolf’s head like the slender bows of a tree, gleaming smooth and polished in the filtered moonlight. Their daggerlike points swooped inward toward the center, forming a graceful crown: the mantle of a celebrated warrioress. Kershov’s stony heart tugged subtly in his breast—and although this new miraculous addition to Athene’s appearance shocked and awed him, in the next beat he could not imagine a more perfect transformation to bless the brindled brutale. She resembled a goddess of the hunt—simultaneously predator and prey, elegant and dangerous. His fascinated gaze roamed each antler from the sharpest tip to the velvety bases, anchored seamlessly upon Athene’s ivory brow. She might have been born with the adornment, as natural as they appeared. At last, the Alpha let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold . . . his sigh carrying a subtle note of dreamy appreciation. Quietly, as if he might shatter the thin surface of their uneasy truce, he murmured the first thing to come to his mind: “They suit you.”

He anticipated whatever flinch or angry glare Athene might stab him with in response to that trifling comment. The alabaster gangster acutely sensed her unease—her valiantly concealed ire—and guessed part of her feelings revolved around her cervine coronet. The striped lady-soldier had never struck him as a vain creature; Athene took care of herself, of course, yet Kershov believed most of her self-confidence stemmed from her excellence in combat. She prided herself on strength—not appearance. And nevertheless the Pharaoh somehow understood that if he dared try to touch one of her antlers, Athene would withdraw as if he had reached for a hideous infection. This mutation unsettled her. What sort of leader would Ker be to dwell on this perceived flaw right after the trials of her childbirth?

After the single comment, he remastered himself. All business. Utterly serious. The bottomless black eyes that sparkled at Athene’s regal tiara now grew hard and grave, and dropped down to appraise the wriggling bundles shielded protectively between their mother’s forelegs. Two healthy, pallid pups, streaked vaguely by Athene’s characteristic markings . . . a male and female. Kershov did not mention or even glance at the third lump tucked just out of the periphery of his sight; had Athene wanted to tell him about any stillborns, she would have. It was not his place to pry. Though he had fathered the children, Athene had accomplished the overwhelming majority of reproductive labor. These pups would always be “hers” in the dragga’s mind—and “his” only when the occasion called for such ownership.

Of course . . . that didn’t mean Athene’s mentions of “trials” escaped Kershov’s notice. At once his fathomless stare flickered back to Athene, reading her currently aggressive features intently. “Only one will remain? Do you mean to pit your offspring against each other?” No trace of accusation or horror darkened his lyrics; only clinical curiosity. Perhaps Athene meant to exile whichever pup failed to impress her—banishing one to focus on rearing the other. It was not a method Ker disagreed with. His motto had always been to favor the strong, refusing to waste his time on any that did not show themselves prepared to achieve personal greatness. Perhaps such an extreme division of one’s own blood might gall other parents—but then, Athene and Kershov were not a typical pair. “Gwyneira and Sergei . . .” His tone dropped to something lower, softer, thoughtful. Slowly—so as not to incite Athene into striking him or disturb the pups—the Ice King lowered himself to his ventrum, limbs tucked tight against his bulk to afford his stunning she-gladiator plenty of space. It was in thie position, nearly at Athene’s eye-level, that the splendid feathers of his cape would become obvious if the new mother had not already noticed. The line between charcoal pinion and snowy fur was stark; storm cloud colors overlapped waves of white starting from just behind his ears clear to the base of his tail. “I’m afraid I am already somewhat attached to them, Madame Athene. They are half the blood of someone who . . . I think I’m quite fond of.”