Kershov was hyper-aware of Athene’s presence - acutely attuned to the faint humidity of her breath warming his face, the soft sound of her claws scratching the dirt as she shifted from paw to paw in thought, the serious alto timbre of her voice humming along the walls of his den, the addictive sweetness of her perfume permeating his senses. He smelled the winter-dead forest on her, frost-laced soil and tree bark . . . the particular fragrant notes that identified her as “Athene,” lavender rain and iron blood . . . and of course the flavor of her heat, the mouth-watering pheromones the betrayed her readiness to mate, her body’s desperate signal that told Kershov her womb awaited his seed. HIs physique responded helplessly to her. When the war-banded queen barged into his den - still bitter from his hearing and the Trials she pushed their pups into - Kershov’s anger prevented him from feeling the natural effects of Athene’s scent. Cold dread froze over the nascent flames of desire . . . and then the logical progression of their conversation chased away the terrible chill, leaving the Ice King open to the she-warrior’s influence. Her silent siren call. With each inhalation, the snowflakes in his veins melted. A new, lovely ache settled itself at the base of his pelvis . . . a harder thump of his pulse, as if his frigid heart was reaching through his chest to touch Athene’s fire.

The proud woman did not answer him in words. Instead, the hardness of her light amber eyes melted, her lips turning up in a fraction of a smile. She nuzzled against him affectionately, encouraging him. And then her brow had arched with suggestive humor, her hips tilting toward him, and the relief of her acceptance to his amendments had Ker smiling like a savage. “I am pleased the lady accepts my offer. Allow me to demonstrate the perks of our new arrangement.”

His once magnificent inner prison of ice and steel lay in ruins within him. If Kershov had been alone - no kingdom to shelter him, no packmates to support him - he might have been lost to the desolation of his failure. That self-mastery had taken Ker a lifetime to construct. He had not always been the fearsome dragon Blossom Forest knew. Before he’d encased his heart in stone, before he’d gathered his army, or even his tundra gang, Kershov had been a child with a family. In many ways, he’d been just like Sergei: driven to please his parents, excited for the future, thinking no farther ahead than the thrill of his first hunt. But horrifying trauma and a ruthless gauntlet of hardship forced Ker to make difficult decisions regarding his own survival. To stand up against the impossible odds that faced him, what would the ivory gladiator do? Ultimately, Kershov chose to build armor for himself. Ultimately, he became that armor, a machine perfectly adapted to the unforgiving world he lived in, with a ghost inside himself that formed alongside the walls meant to keep it controlled. Now that everything he once relied on had been destroyed . . .

He would lean on this fantastic, brave she-wolf. He would follow the torch that burned in her heart, the reason that led her mind, until he rebuilt himself anew. Better. Kershov would forge something of himself that was worthy of Athene - of everyone in Uyaraut. The Ice King didn’t know what this future version of himself would look like, how he would comport himself . . . but Kershov had never been a coward, and he would not shy away from the process simply because it would be difficult or unpredictable.

Languidly, lazily, he traced the inner plane of her thigh with his nose, stirring the hairs in the opposite direction to send a tingle through Athene’s skin. As he reached the apex of her thighs, the tip of his tongue parted through pristine white fur, seeking the pearl-pink treasure it hid, a murmur of approval leaving his throat as he tasted that first sip of her readiness. “How do you plan to challenge me, Madame Athene? How will I know when I’m satisfying you?” A few gentle swipes of his tongue, maddeningly slow, around the outer petals of her flower, sensitizing her to his touch. Adding the moisture of his saliva to her already glistening folds . . . prompting the tender tissue to swell, its color blooming from pretty pink to a flushed rose. Gradually, Kershov incorporated more of his tongue . . . the increased surface area slicking over the delicious flesh offered up to him, swirling closer and closer to the sensitive bundle of nerves he knew would have Athene jerking and gasping. Once the cruel Emperor was sure that the merest flick of his tongue across her slit would make Athene convulse, he suddenly devoted all of his attention to her most responsive spot, pressing the flat of his tongue firm and fast and mercilessly against her. Never did he enter her gates. Never did his pressure relax, not halting his ministrations until Athene had coursed over the crest of her orgasm.

It was unbelievable, truly, how the sounds Athene uttered set him off. Delaying her release brought Kershov to the precipice of his own, his breath already ragged by the time he sent his lover over the edge, the ache in his loins chasing away all sanity. Ker was in full control of his faculties - the Beast nowhere in sight - yet he could not deny the purely animal lust that consumed him, instinctual desire urging him to take Athene until both of them collapsed. If her hind limbs began to shake, he would support her with a strong forelimb, using the leverage to mount her from behind. Just as the first time they’d danced, they fit together beautifully. As if they’d been made for one another. Athene embraced him close, skin-tight, and Kershov filled her to the brim. He could feel her throbbing all around him. His hips bucked hard - beyond his conscious control - and the initial surge of pleasure beckoned him to continue the motion again, over and over and over, quick and furious, deeper with every thrust. His front limbs clutched at Athene’s flanks, yanking her toward him with every swing, his abdomen laid across her spine so that the could be as near to her as possible. At some point, his shredded breaths became a continuous rumble in his lungs . . . the thrum of a dragon diving into his hoard.

Time lost its meaning for the pair. If Athene could no longer hold herself upright, then Kershov would follow her to the floor of his chambers, adjusting his grip so that the glorious euphoria of their lovemaking remained uninterrupted. If she turned her head back to look at him, he would meet her elegant muzzle with a possessive kiss, reminding her that this was no longer an agreement between disconnected parties. This was not for the sole purpose of preserving genetics, or getting exercise. If Kershov were to claw his way back to his former, frightening status, then he needed this wolfess, needed her with him, supporting him. He wanted to cherish her in turn - not as his beta, his partner, but his mate.