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Northern Realm immediately after his father’s death, he’d spent most of his time hunting—and slaying—Walkers rather than leading his people.
    And even though he’d already punished the ones who’d taken his family from him, others still came. Others he hunted. They’d learned how to hide, and hide well, but he always found them. Or so he’d thought.
    Rose might not have hurt his family, but she was one of them. And if she was to be believed, she had found Walkers he had not. What if they did as before? What if they worked together to destroy him?
    Yes, he should have killed her. But at that first meeting, he’d thought,
I can use her to learn about the ones I cannot find.
He could learn how many were out there, where they traveled, when they traveled, their strengths, their weaknesses. Yet at this second meeting, she’d given him nothing. And
still
he hadn’t hurt her.
    And he looked forward to their third meeting, not to learn from her but to see her.
    â€œI’m more than a fool,” he muttered.
    He’d had his men prepare this tent in the woods surrounding his palace. On his way here, he’d been ambushed. A fight had broken out—damn King Greer and the Eastern Realm—and he almost hadn’t reached the tent in time. Rose would have appeared wherever he was, out in the open and in front of his men. There would have been no denying her origins then.
    She would have been put to death, and his questions wouldn’t have been answered. Questions he’d had no business entertaining. Like, how had time changed her? Like, how would she react to him? Like, what would she say to him?
    Like, would those liquid silver eyes of hers sparkle as her temper flared?
    Time had indeed changed her, adding more curves to that slender body. She’d lashed out at him, dared him, defied him, and yes, those eyes had sparkled.
    His neglected body had reacted. He’d wanted to touch and to taste.
Too young,
he’d had to remind himself. Over and over again. That hadn’t stopped his mind from screaming,
Mine.
A hazard of the bonding, he knew, and not of a particular woman’s appeal. Though she was. Appealing. God, was she appealing. She’d been soft under his hands, her height making her a perfect fit to the hard line of his body.
    Would she have welcomed a kiss?
    He was thankful he hadn’t found out. Sex with a Walker—he would never live it down.
    Should have killed her,
he thought again. Instead, he’d tested her strength, her endurance, her combat skills. He’d even
instructed
her on how to be better, wondering how
her
people would react to her origins if they ever found out. Thinking he wouldn’t be there to protect her. Thinking if she ever decided to live here, she had to be prepared for
his
people.
    What was wrong with him? Live here? She
couldn’t
live here. His people hated her kind. And if Jasha ever found out . . . Vasili sighed. There’d be no living that down, either. Worse, his brother’s disappointment and hurt would slay him.
    As if his thoughts had summoned his brother, the tent flap rose, and Jasha strode inside. His right-hand man, Grigori, trailed behind. Both were dressed in the clothes of a warrior. Leather breastplates, pants, and dusters. Boots with daggers in the toes. Both men were dripping wet.
    Jasha was a less . . . hardened version of Vasili. Wavy black hair cut haphazardly, violet eyes, tall, muscled. Though his first instinct wasn’t always to kill—as Vasili’s was—he was no less skilled with a sword. And no less savage when riled. Vasili had made sure of that. He loved his brother more than anyone or anything, and had wanted the boy well able to care for himself. He’d trained his brother exactly as he’d trained Rose: without mercy.
    â€œThere you are,” Jasha said with a grin. He spoke in Drakish, their language, and Vasili made a mental