The force of Kershov’s breath tearing past his teeth in a snarl ruffled the ivory hairs of Athene’s throat, but the proud wolfess did not flinch nor blink her raw-red eyes. She patiently waited for the roused dragon to spit his frost . . . and once he threw his question at her face, the huntress held her tongue a moment longer, her sunlit windows shifting in quiet thought while Ker gritted his teeth and panted in the tense moment. What did she want from him? What did any of them want from him? It felt so surreal to still be allowed the privilege of sleeping in his own den, his only real wound the lacerations he’d given himself, despite everything the pack now knew about him. Only Frekari had been willing to participate in the Ice King’s hearing - and even then, Kershov suspected the maned wolf had done so simply because he’d ordered her to, and not because she believed he deserved the retribution he demanded. What would it take to make Athene understand that Ker understood his monster better than anyone else? That even though the damned thing lived in him, its unpredictable nature made it all the more dangerous and untrustworthy? That he’d failed as its warden, and no longer held the key to its prison? For all the alabaster gangster knew, he’d snap in the next breath . . . would Athene be prepared to fight back then, when she’d stepped so willingly into the demon’s chambers?

And there was the matter of the Trials - so freshly completed Kershov could not look at Athene without also seeing the faces of his children covered in blood. Did she seek validation for her choice to pit Sergei and Gwyneira against each other? A low, restrained thunder built deep in the Czar’s chest as he glowered at the dark-striped lady standing before him. She held her posture as regally as ever . . . yet weariness traced lines in her elegant face, betraying things she had not voiced aloud. Had . . . had she cried over this? Had Athene shed tears for all the other pups her myopic pack had wasted? The callousness that grew around Kershov’s heart during his years in the tundra warzone spurred him to incredulous anger over this apparent pointlessness of emotion - the rumble in his breast scraping roughly against his ribcage - and in the next second, the barbarous noise vanished. The winter-born Pharaoh could not judge Athene for whatever feelings throttled her heart when he finally understood the wreckage that emotion wrought over those it influenced. Emotions were not rational. They could not always be justified. The body had no control over the physiological reactions plucked by wounded heartstrings. The colossal warrior had spent the vast majority of his life thinking that his ruthless self-mastery held him above such pitiful, trivial matters . . . until the ghastly slip of his sanity proved him entirely wrong, stabbing him with the sharpened sword of his own hubris.

Athene was right. He was a fool.

Obsidian eyes glanced away from the she-wolf’s mournful facade, as if he’d find the right words to say etched into the wall of his den. I’m sorry. I’ve failed you. I am not the King this pack needs. But then Athene’s measured words fell into the uneasy silence like perfectly formed snowflakes, and Kershov turned back to her to listen.

The more the grand woman spoke . . . the more that terrible cold seeped into Kershov’s skeleton. The chill that was not numbness but instead an uncomfortable ache, leeching the warmth from his massive frame, reaching its silvered fingers into his stomach and gripping hard. It was as if Athene were a surgeon - dispassionate, professional, the truth lingering behind her observations cutting into the Ice King like a scalpel. Again his hackles prickled, though his body went unnaturally still. Beyond the roiling drama of his trial, his absolute stubbornness, Kershov realized why Athene had been so disgusted with his judgement. “Perhaps Briseis was afraid to leave Uyaraut . . . afraid that I would find her and drag her back.” Syllables careful chosen, as if plucked from a card tower about to collapse. Kershov did not mean to shut Athene down with denial, but rather to pick through a situation he’d only though he’d understood. If she came here to act as his defendant, then Ker would resume his role as prosecutor, albeit more critically than before. “As for the litter . . . it is true that no earth-toned colors reach into my own heritage. But I know nothing of Briseis’s line. Is it not possible that her father or mother wore those hues? Is the shade of a pelt enough to proclaim my innocence?”

The atmosphere contrasted his hearing starkly - no more did Kershov rave against Athene’s refusal to sentence him. Rather, he met her calculated voice with smooth counters devoid of frustration, hackles eventually settling in place. They threatened to spike a third time once Athene brought up vampires; however, the Emperor forced himself to stay collected, no matter how much he hated the notion of a vampire controlling someone currently sheltered in his pack. “Macaria has never enthralled her victims that I know of . . . but then, she is not the sort to play this sort of cruel game with a young girl. I suppose we could ask her what she knows of vampiric talents to determine if that level of coercion is even possible. Because if it is - do you honestly think I would allow you to undergo a perilous investigation by yourself?” Kershov smiled coldly, the handsome half of his muzzle tugging to complete the demonic grin carved forever into the other side. “No, my dear Athene. We shall hunt the matter of my innocence together.”

A beat passed. Once more Ker found himself distracted by Athene’s tantalizing proximity, her heat blooming in the close quarters of his den, how her perfume melted so easily into his cologne - as if she was meant to sleep here, and the only reason she did not was due to their quarrel over his self-imposed sentence and the hardship of the Trial. Had Athene not abruptly spilled her heart over the death of Sergei and its impact on her, Ker might have blurted the apologies lingering on his tongue. He’d been right - this was the reason behind the scarlet limning her lovely citrine eyes, the forced balance of her stance. “Athene . . .” Kershov knew what he would tell her as a warlord. The Trial was your choice. Your dream. You should have predicted your relationship as mother would conflict with your goal. Swallow the bitterness of your decision. Except Kershov was not the heartless leader of a gang, nor was he the once feared leader of Blossom Forest’s first army. He was . . . someone new, his heart equally confused and conflicted, missing the shell that once protected it and defined all the boundaries he relied on. What would this incarnation of himself say?

Eventually, as he watched Athene struggle to control her breath, as her stare avoided his, Kershov decided that perhaps it was better to just listen. He waited patiently for the beautiful creature to compose herself. And as soon as she had, she released a torrent that swept Kershov off his paws. Out of his mind.

After all of his failures, his shortcomings, his foolishness - Athene still wanted him? And all she asked - her only requirement for the exclusive pleasure of her company - was that he committed to her in turn? Kershov did not have a clear memory of “happiness” . . . but he assumed that the agonizing rupture flooding hard and glorious in his chest and threatening to undo him might have been close.

The snarl that exploded from his throat shook with passion. He strode into Athene’s space, the bulk of him moving diagonally toward her so that she could not back from his quarters, and his bottomless onyx pools smoldered into hers. He could taste her breath mingling with his, could almost feel her warmth brushing against his pelt. “Negotiation be damned. I accept your proposition, with one alteration - there will be none that I touch if I can touch you. If I am to sire children, you will be there mother, and no one else. If I am to spend dusk to dawn by your side, then you too must stay by me. You laud my genetics - but let me prove myself worthy to you as a brute, all of me, so that you may accept who I am as a wolf and not just the vehicle for seed you prefer.” Unable to stop himself, he ran his tongue down the side of Athene’s muzzle, over the arch of her cheekbone, swiping up to nip the outer edge of her ear so that she caught every husky word he uttered. “Make me earn you. For now that I know I may have you, I will never let you go.”