After the almost traumatic winter threesome Kahlan had planned - dragging that bastard Ingmar up from the pits of hell to wedge himself like an unwelcome weed between their love - Kirastasia had bounced back rather spectacularly. As long as that stupid, oafish, selfish son-of-a-bitch wasn’t mentioned, the alabaster damsel was all dazzling smiles and champagne-bubble laughter. The season’s bitter chill peeled away her shimmering Vipera armor and left her strangely . . . smoldering, her belly a bed of coals that flickered and danced with the heat of lust, stoked hotter by the frigid winds that made cuddling into tight spaces a necessity. She positively glowed with affection. Adoration of her beautiful Kahlan gleamed from the tips of the hairs on her pelt, flashed in her maple irises, soared in her veins. For so long the tundra bird had lived in terror that she would fail in her ultimate mission: to save Kah. Nightmares of the ex-healer’s eyes growing hard and unfeeling, her shattered heart forever buried in an untouchable grave, haunted Kirastasia like the vengeful ghost of one already dead. She had endured countless pains lashed upon her by her stunning first love, things she knew were weapons Kahlan used to protect the tenderness of her own secret agony. Ceaselessly, Kira feared that the happiness just within reach would elude her . . . abandon her, leaving the husk of her Kahlan behind. But fate turned out much differently. Not only had Kahlan finally faced the emotions she once desperately fled from, she had admitted her love for Kirastasia. Her love.

“You are mine. And I am yours.” Lyrics tattooed in blood upon Kirastasia’s racing heart, branded in flames, scarred and carved and indelibly marked. Kira felt those words as if they were etched into the back of her breastbone. Her eyes had widened. Watered. Poured tear after tear, her spirit taking flight. She’d been sore and mortified from Ingmar’s callous use, and suddenly all of that hurt melted completely away. There was only the black velvet of Kahlan’s voice, dark and a little rough from verbally shredding Ingmar like a flank steak, and Kahlan’s furious possessive facade, and the luminescence of Kahlan’s anger showering sparks in those intelligent sunlight irises. How could Kirastasia possibly feel anything else but ecstasy? If lightning struck her dead on the spot, the brindled brutale’s soul would have remained rooted in place - because she already knew purest heaven.

The pair could have completed their journey toward Uyaraut to seek shelter with Milo (and if Kahlan stopped by that oceanside territory a few times, Kirastasia did not blame her); however, the tundra princess had no desire to tether herself to a pack - especially not one ruled by her hated father. Funnily enough, though Kira would snarl at any mention of Kershov, she had long since forgiven her precious Kahlan for copulating with that evil asshole. In her thoughts, any and all sins Kah could have possibly committed against her - each nasty word and purposefully harmful deed - no longer existed. Those were all relics of the past, and the past was over. The Reign of True Love now ruled over Kira’s every waking moment . . . and what a tyrannical rule that was. Perhaps it was merely her winter hormones hijacking her senses, yet Kirastasia could never be satisfied with making love to Kahlan. She ambushed the older wolfess on hunts. While they groomed themselves. In the middle of broad daylight. In the silence of night. Sometimes Kirastasia merely wanted to push the earth-hued goddess against a tree and kiss her until they were both breathless. Other times . . . many other times . . . Kira needed to devour her paramour like a ravenous beast, unable to stop herself until Kahlan lost track of the number of time’s she’d exploded over the edge. Snowstorms and glacial freezing temperatures failed to crush the white fae’s euphoria. There was just one teensy tiny miniscule thing that might have bummed her out. Just a smidge.

Kirastasia was pregnant. Again.

Her first ever litter had been given to her by her Tempest mate, Drizzt . . . gods rest his soul. Those children were now old enough to take care of themselves, their eyes having erased all signs of their ties to mortal wolves with heaven’s blue fire. Kirastasia had hidden half of her second litter elsewhere, and the other half resided safely in Uyaraut with Milo. Those sweet little mutants were conceived for the purpose of smothering any mistakes Kira had made with her first batch of urchins. Pfft - a lot of good that had done. And this litter . . . as soon as the fishnet punkette realized that her treacherous womb had decided to support life AGAIN, she’d spent the better half of an afternoon railing and screaming and cursing Ingmar’s dirty name. If he’d filled her with more of those double-mutated creatures again . . . she would hunt him down and personally remove his testicles, and then give them to Kahlan as a gift. Judging by the way her stomach swelled as winter’s chill faded into spring’s gentle green, this would be another good-sized brood. Perfect. More mouths to feed, more personalities to give attention to.

Once all signs of snow finally vanished from sight - letting verdant leaves and delicate blossoms behind - Kirastasia was ready to expel her parasites. Er, pups. Not wanting to gunk up the den that she and Kahlan had been sharing recently, she set off for a section of the forest where she knew a remnant of Blossom’s old Mating Dens once resided. The secluded landscape, pockmarked with cozy underground rooms here and there, used to house all sorts of sordid affairs . . . but now the abandoned area had been mostly overgrown, adding even more privacy to the remaining sanctuaries. While dawn still lingered as a faint pink glow on the horizon, Kirastasia settled down into a spot embraced by thick, mossy tree roots. Her contractions knifed her abdomen in regular intervals. Fluid already soaked her hind limbs, warning her of the impending arrival of her cubs. Closing her eyes, the soon-to-be mother laid down and concentrated on timing her heroic pushes with the natural rhythm of her body . . .

Perhaps she could thank her previous experience for the timely delivery of her first pup. Hardly an hour had passed since Kira tucked herself into her hiding place than she felt the arrival of a squirming body. Eagerly, the reptile-blessed wolfess reached out to clean the shiny sac from the little one’s shape. “A little . . . sooty one like your father, I see. I wonder wh-what?!”

She reared back from the now squealing babe as if the thing had spit at her like a snake. Because - had it not been for the fuzzy puppy head and worm of a puppy tail, the creature did look like an ugly fat serpent! Oil-slick scales completely covered the girl’s body, from her spine to the tips of her tiny toes. These were not the pebbled gauntlets that decorated a Vipera child - this was all over, transforming Kira’s daughter into a monster that had been hopelessly caught between wolf and reptile - an abomination. Trying in vain not to hyperventilate, limbs shaking, eyes wide in shock, Kirastasia nevertheless pushed the whimpering bundle toward her teat, trying not to shudder in revulsion when the disgrace effortlessly latched and began to suckle. They can’t all be like this. There’s no way. But she was proved horrifically wrong when her second daughter also slid into this world with most of her body draped in lizardskin, this time a verdant emerald palette.

When her third pup sported no scales upon his body, Kirastasia had to choke back a sob of relief. She quickly swiped her tongue over the beautifully fluffy body . . . only to realize that the poor boy wasn’t breathing. No pulse jumped in his chest. No movement stirred in his miniscule limbs. Growling through her tears, Kira licked him over and over, hoping to stimulate something in the normal-appearing son, ferociously ignoring the way her hideous daughters yanked at her stomach. “Wake up. Wake up, damn you.” He didn’t. Instinctively, the grieving mother carefully prodded him off to the edges of the den, knowing she had to focus on the living. At least her fourth pup possessed a wolf’s traditional pelt . . .

“Hooves?!” Okay. The universe was definitely playing a joke on her. From nose to tail, the pale little girl resembled a lovely lupine . . . yet instead of paws, her legs ended in cloven hooves so small Kira could have balanced on on a single paw-pad. Huffing, skin crawling, Kira plopped the undersized goat-girl next to her larger sisters, sneering when the child also began to greedily feed. “Clearly, that Ingmar bastard’s seed is defective.” She flopped down like a toddler throwing a tantrum, brow furrowed, concentrating on pushing out one last pup that BETTER be normal . . .

Nope. Another snakeskin mistake. A son with a smooth dove-grey head and tail, and grass-colored scales blotched with black. He cried pitifully until Kira shoved him roughly into the pile already guzzling away at her stomach. As if to mock her, the rising sun sent a few golden rays past the den’s entrance and onto her abominable brood, highlighting all those scales and those ridiculous hooves. Kirastasia narrowed her bright amber eyes at the miniature horrors, another rumble shaking her throat even while her limbs curled around them all to shelter them.


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