The frigid Czar had assumed Athene would know precisely what he asked of her—so her curiosity thrilled him, the more primal and virile part of his nature savagely pleased to have this chance to show off for an exemplary female. Knowledge equated to power; holding just this single secret exercise in his deck of cards gave Kershov something—if not an advantage over Athene herself, then over any other wolf who might potentially earn her loyalty or trust. I’ve shown her something new . . . something no one else has thought of. He rapidly discovered that he wanted to work for the mighty she-wolf’s approval, that he wanted to earn Athene’s devotion beyond any reasonable doubt. Since running his first successful gang on the tundra, the alabaster gangster had ferociously strived to dominate everything as a leader. To be strong was to survive—but to stand as more powerful than your enemies, to sense their quaking fear when you howled and see the dedication of one’s subalterns shining feverishly from their eyes, that was to live. Kershov could never be content with Athene merely acquiescing to his rule . . . he thirsted for the brindled brutale’s unquestioned presence by his side and her vicious conviction in anything he asked of her.

And that “anything” was gradually building toward tantalizing horizons the ivory warrior had not explored for moons.

After a moment of intense observation, Athene flawlessly replicated Kershov’s actions, her upper body scooping low to shift her weight onto those long, lean runner’s limbs. The action did wonders to her pelt; that pristine snowy canvas with its horizontal slashes of black trickled like water over her muscles, gleaming hairs shifting subtly to accommodate the sinuous flex of muscle and tendon. Her intelligent sunlit lanterns took on a thoughtful quality, their gleam turning inward as she listened to the rhythm of her own glorious physique. For the brief few heartbeats Kershov had to watch her acclimate, he reveled in a secret forbidden heat . . . one that smoldered black-and-gold in the deepest pit of his abdomen, nestled in the coals of his pelvic region, nudging bestial instincts with the tip of a red-hot want until they squirmed and salivated. This magnificent wolfess with her stripes of night called out to the monster buried within his frozen bones—a puzzle piece to fit the chasms left by heartbreak and solitude, an instrument tuned to the same harmony that gave Kershov life. Athene was his kind of beautiful. When at last his shamelessly perusing gaze traveled back to the elegant features of her proud face, the subtle smirk he found there made his already pounding heart leap . . .

. . . and then slam into overdrive, its wild drumbeat slamming a warcry that demanded Kershov shove the femme fatale into the dirt and screw her until his legs went numb.

Her molten gold pools swept up to his obsidian mirrors—and Kershov made no effort to disguise the venomous lust boiling in their depths. He slaked his tongue over his broad, blood-drinking grin, head tilted playfully. “Breeder?” The tone of that single word dripped thick with lecherous intent that belied its otherwise clinical meaning.

Athene, however, continued speaking in her unique poetic cadence as if she hadn’t just stirred the fiery embers of sex within the dragga panting only a few feet from her. She flattered him, explaining herself like a dignified queen . . . only to lower herself into another sumptuous pose—this time extending the exercise into a stretch that pulled her frame to its limit, contorting into a position that anyone with functioning eyes would declare a work of art. Kershov was practically drooling, jaws aching and clenched as if to tear directly into the fae’s sweet meat, never blinking when Athene arched into an elastic lunge that completed her second “push-up.”

Her third locked the frost-born phantom in such a state of sensual agony he could not bring himself to speak, lest his voice erupt in a lascivious snarl without any trace of sanity or pride.

The dangerous woman’s final question went unanswered, her Alpha visibly struggling to control himself while instincts clawed and bayed and thrashed violently inside of him. Does she WANT me to mount her? Right here? Right now? A jolt like lightning struck Kershov at once: this was a test. A challenge. A game. Athene was toying with him, expertly, exactly how he would have done. He could never had dreamed this porcelain Valkyrie possessed a similar sick sense of humor, willing and able to participate in a dance upon a razor’s edge. “The latter is . . . quite sufficient.” A low growl resonated behind the Ice King’s lyrics. “Perhaps we need to alter the exercise, to give you the proper training . . .” He stalked a slow circle around her, inspecting her perfection from every angle, until he came to stand parallel to her—away from the hypnotic power of her gorgeous hips and the prize they cradled.

“You make it look too easy, Madame Athene.” His voice was a smoky purr. Only an inch separated their winter-sewn fur. “It would be much more of a challenge if you tried this . . .” And now Kershov dipped once more into the modified bow, bringing up one foreleg so that the majority of his weight now rested on that lone pillar. This routine had taught his previous subordinates balance, control—and while the aggressive poltergeist believed Athene might execute the movement perfectly once rested, he counted on her depleted energy to make her waver . . . right into his shoulder, waiting patiently by her side.