Athene had only taken a few days for herself, hardly a week if Kershov were counting the hours correctly. Under normal circumstances, the white monolith would have allowed such independence without batting an eye. His mate’s time was hers to do with what she pleased. Except . . . she was his mate, and like a greedy dragon the deadly ghost discovered that he didn’t care to be without Athene’s presence whatsoever. Her stunning wit fascinated him, her brilliant intelligence stimulated him, her incredible body . . . did both. Only one room in the network that connected their shared dens remaned “unconsecrated” by their wild copulations: the bed which they shared with young Gwyneira for the chill of winter. Gwyn surely knew what exhausted her parents every night after she’d gone to sleep. Hell - the entire pack probably knew. And although the pair had yet to fully reveal the intricacies of their relationship to Uyaraut, Kershov could not stop himself from missing Athene during her introspection.

He had fallen asleep with his brave daughter curled next to him, a tender arrangement that Kershov had not experienced before now. Silently, the warlord admitted her quite liked the closeness with his pup. “Family” was not a concept he’d dwelled upon for the majority of his life; with Athene, an unexplored facet of himself was tentatively opening up. Slumber lay like a thick blanket upon his mind when his mate trode into the bedchamber, nudging him from his dreams. A risque smile completed the permanent grin etched into one half of his muzzle at the promising light in Athene’s summer lanterns. They extricated themselves from Gwyneira’s sprawled limbs and wound up in a more secluded passage. Anticipation hammered in Ker’s pulse. Shit, she smelled amazing. Why did she not come closer? Why stand away from him with that serious expression? What had Athene thought of on her own the past suns? The smile on Kershov’s facade thinned, flattened, his ears swiveled forward as if he could somehow catch the unspoken words waiting on Athene’s tongue. And - just when the Alpha thought something must be terribly wrong - her poetic lyrics broke the silence, and her form was melding into his.

The brazen vixen placed quick, teasing kisses at the apex of his rising manhood, each brief pass of her tongue-tip making the muscles in Kershov’s jaw clench. By the time her humid breath had warmed his iron pair, the Ice King was already straining to control the now proud erection selfishly demanding his attention. “If we are to have a conversation, my mate . . . my eyes are up here.” Damn it all, his voice betrayed the desperation of his arousal like a neon sign: breathing shallow and rough, his voice like worn dark leather - a nearly tactile sound that rasped from his maw and sought to wrap around Athene’s awareness like her tongue around his shaft. Herculean control prevented the frostbitten dragga from curling his claws into the dirt . . . from twitching his hips in response the playful ministrations of the unruly wolfess . . . yet the stir of his ivory hackles showed just how much the Czar relished Athene’s adoration. He allowed her to torment him a moment longer, if only to prove to himself that he truly was back in control, a master of the mind and body that recently felt like a wrecking ball demolishing all his hard work. If Ker could not withstand a little game with his queen . . . then clearly he faced a very long path toward redemption.

“You say you’re . . . pregnant?” What might have been crowed with joy by other fathers or noted clinically by Kershov at any other time escaped as a smoky growl deepened by awakening lust. Pitch-glass windows closed in concentration - vainly attempting to draw focus inward - as Athene’s mouth did something divine that had his cock throbbing painfully. Of course, behind the curtains of his eyelids, Kershov’s mind immediately dove toward thoughts of the copulation that surely begat the life stirring in Athene’s womb. If he remembered correctly, he’d spilled his seed into that womb over . . . and over . . . until the beautiful she-wolf’s quaking hind limbs were slick with it. How could the woman not be with child after that tireless dance? And the dances that caught them spontaneously afterwards, forever improving and inventing choreography to keep the pair entertained for hours on end. “I am glad to hear it. No matter how many . . . there are . . . they will surely be as perfect as those who came before them.” Phrases punctuated by tight grunts. Had it not been for his vasculature rushing between his thighs, Kershov might have sounded more nostalgic, more comforting in respect to Athene’s still-bruised heart and the sorrowful memory of their son. The heavens knew the Alpha wanted to assure his empress that everything would be okay - that she had been an excellent mother and mentor once, and that she’d surely be so again. Ker wanted to murmur approval and support for her decision not to repeat the killing trials that ended Sergei’s life, to rub his muzzle against her cheek to show that he loved her . . .

He wanted the saucy harlot’s tongue to finish what it started, or else cease it’s merciless torture!

A serrated growl harsh enough to cut through anyone else rumbled from the deepest part of Kershov’s broad chest. His maw swung around to clamp both rows of daggers into Athene’s brindle-painted flank - parting the fur but not puncturing flesh - and with a hard tug the tyrant hoped to pull his mate’s mouth away from his standing soldier and her firm ass toward his sternum. Teeth released her briefly, then returned as pointed play-bites upon the satin skin connecting hip to belly . . . and up along the curve of that hip to the base of Athene’s luxurious tail, where the winter dragon groomed her in long, coarse strokes. “I know you want to talk, Athene - that mouth of yours is very busy.” Fangs combed through the alabaster hairs laid over her spine . . . and then forked upward, touches that might have been kisses had they been done with lips rather than knives. He wanted the pinpoint sensation to shiver through her nerves, titillate her with the frustration of where his attention could be instead. If the huntress attempted to move her perfectly shaped hind end away from where it nearly pressed into Kershov’s chest, he’d simply yank her tail backward.

“As for you rank, I am glad you accept. There is no one else I want by my side . . . and no one else I can see leading Uyaraut. It was time for you to wear a crown other than those lovely antlers.” The sharpness of fangs faded into languid caresses of his tongue, replacing the soft waves of Athene’s snow-and-braken pelt with almost worshipful regard. He wanted to feel the undulations of her muscles under her canvas, wanted to memorize the shape of her with each sense he possessed. And if she wore any other scent but his own - be it the tangy blood of her prey or the salt of the ocean or the dust of the earth - Kershov would clean it completely away and replace it with his own cologne. “Of course, even queens need their rest. You know I’d never insult you by babying you, but if there’s anything, anything you desire . . .” Growl-textured voice releasing in a sigh, the tundra gangster traced his nose over the subtle swell of Athene’s abdomen. They created their previous litter under the pretense of a professional relationship with the explicit purpose of passing on their excellent genetics. All business. The actual mating had been an ugly, primal thing, though the detached nature of their agreement remained. These pups . . . had been engendered within a cosmos of romance and desire, of hidden feelings newly explored. They could not be anything but flawless. Wonderful. Perfect. Kershov had never looked forward to a litter in his life. He had never cared about his offspring beyond their existence as pawns, as symbols of his virile strength. Hell, he’d never doted on a pregnant female before either. So many fresh, alien experiences to navigate as a team. And just weeks ago Kershov had believed his life razed to the ground, with nothing to dream for but the punishment he thought he’d earned.

Bitterness rapidly flickered through the blizzard dragon’s obsidian stare. During the interim between his botched trial and the appointment of Uyaraut’s Kings, the subject of Briseis and the investigation into her rape had gone quiet. Not forgotten - never forgotten. Ker’s diamond-cut heart still ached at the possibility of him committing the ultimate atrocity against one he promised to protect; however, until Athene brought about concrete evidence to convict him, the Pharaoh would have to bite his tongue. He had a mate to honor and pups to train. No more would he humiliate them with dramatic, immature conduct. If he tried . . . Kershov had no doubt his alluring goddess would crush him with her furious retribution.

Abruptly, to distract Athene if she happened to catch the shadow cast across his mood, the porcelain hessian flicked Athene’s feathery banner to the side - exposing the delicious pink slip of flesh cupped by a pair of buttocks the gods must have sculpted themselves. One forepaw reached up to slide lazily down the anterior plane of her thigh, pushing the wolfess lightly back toward him if she made any effort whatsoever to escape. “If they are yours and mine, they will be nothing but masters.” The whole surface of his tongue pressed into the petals of her flower and licked upward, wetting her with his saliva. Then, grinning evilly, Kershov blew a faint breath to cool that which he’d just warmed, hoping to have Athene trembling and aggravated. “Let’s be done with talking for now. I think I’d prefer to be fucking.”