A smile that held no humor tipped the handsome half of Kershov’s muzzle when Stormy responded—all worried stuttering and downturned gaze, pointing out what he usually did to trespassers, but had not done to her. He nodded his head before answering her dryly. “Well, you are on my property without permission. But I think it’s obvious you aren’t here as a spy, or skulking around with the intent to assassinate one of my packmembers.” The icy smirk widened, and the teeth in his mouth glittered dangerously. “Besides—if that were the case, you clearly know the repercussions.” The punishments zooming through her broken mind were surely enough to deter the female from making any foolish moves. Unstable creatures often got themselves into trouble by lashing out when they weren’t supposed to, or engaging in thoughtless, reckless behavior . . . but THIS version of Stormy, emaciated and pitiful, was more likely to freeze in place than bite strangers. Her fear would act as the collar to keep her in her place. All Kershov had to do was yank her chains, and remind her of her own visceral sense of self-preservation.

Watery eyes caught his mantle of feathers at last, and the Czar found himself wincing—abruptly uncomfortable with her scrutiny. “Yes, I have—” Frantic syllables exploded out of the young woman’s mouth. It appeared that his avian blessing was the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak; surprise burned away her terror, leaving Stormy with a hilarious bug-eyed expression and spiked hackles. He watched each concern flash behind her irises: wondering if she’d plunged off the deep end, if she’d become hopelessly sick, the heavy disbelief hammering at her brain. The Alpha allowed her to suffer for a moment before clearing his throat for her attention. “They are real, Miss Stormy.” If he concentrated, he was able to lift the slate-grey pinions and ruffle them. This display still stung—the beds of the feathers still raw and sensitive—but if he let himself, Kershov realized he didn’t entirely hate this mutation. At least his cape was the color of dull metal armor; imagine his shame if he’d ended up with the vibrant pink plumage of a flamingo, or the buttery yellow of a canary. Unacceptable. No matter the pain, Ker definitely would have risked bleeding to death by pulling out every hideous too-bright plume.

“I think I know what caused these feathers to appear upon my spine . . . and if I’m not mistaken, this is not the last time such an event will take place. I only wish I knew how to predict when the phenomenon occurred . . .” Watching Stormy shiver in place, her limbs ramrod-straight and spittle flying from her lips, Kershov had an idea. He’d already made up his mind to keep the poor lass here, if only for her own safety—but he could still find a use for her. If she felt grateful enough for his hospitality, he doubted Stormy would be brave enough to defy a direct order her placed upon her. What if this beaten bird, so thirsty for meaning, became his scout? What if he could send her to look for areas where Blossom’s new magic sprung forth? She could witness the transformations that wracked wolves firsthand, and report back to him on her findings. If Uyaraut were to discover a powerful wellspring, or learned how to manipulate magic for its own uses . . . the grin returned to his wintry features.

Standing at his full height, the King circled around so that he paced right by Stormy’s bony side, tail sweeping once over her hips. He spoke in his “gentlest” voice, a tone meant to calm and convince her. “Come, Miss Stormy. I’m sure there is a bed for you here. As long as you are in Uyaraut’s care, no harm will come to you.”