Page 31 of Asking Fur Trouble

As the couple approached, Charov’s gaze drifted past them, catching on a familiar form standing at the edge of the room. Bess. She wore a dark purple dress in the Nova Aurora fashion, her curves accentuated by the tailored fabric. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back loosely, revealing the elegant curve of her neck. Those mesmerizing green eyes were fixed on him with such raw compassion that something cracked in Charov’s chest.

Despite his fear—his determination to keep emotional distance—seeing her flooded him with a sense of relief so profound, it stole his breath.

His bear surged forward, demanding he go to her, take her in his arms, bury his face in her neck and breathe in her scent. The urge was so powerful he nearly rose from his seat before forcing himself to remain still.

Not now. Not here.

“Your Majesty.” Duke Kynon Nuele bowed deeply, his sharp features set in practiced sorrow. “Deepest condolences on your tremendous loss. King Sawyr was a visionary leader and a dear friend.”

His wife, Duchess Nya, curtsied elegantly. “We grieve with you and the Queen Mother. Such a terrible tragedy.”

Charov inclined his head. “Your presence honors my father’s memory.”

Kynon stepped closer, lowering his voice. “When the appropriate time comes, Your Majesty, we stand ready to assist with the transition. Your father always said you would be a magnificent king, but even the strongest shoulders can use support.”

“Indeed,” Nya added, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “We were like family to your parents. Consider us the same to you.”

Charov’s gaze flickered to Bess again. She had moved slightly, talking quietly with Gerri Wilder now. Something in him longed for her simple honesty after the practiced diplomacy of court interactions.

“Your counsel will be welcome,” Charov said, his voice carrying the authoritative rumble of his bear. “I’ll call upon you soon.”

As the Nueles moved on, Charov fought the urge to beckon Bess forward. His instincts demanded he claim her publicly as his mate, show everyone that the new king had found his queen. But fear of that deep connection—of eventually experiencing the devastation his mother now endured—kept him frozen in place.

Still, his bear wouldn’t let him completely ignore her presence.Our mate is here. She came for us in our grief.

Charov allowed himself one more lingering look at Bess, a promise to himself that he would face this particular internal battle soon.

After several more hours, Charov nodded mechanically to the last of the royal line, his jaw aching from holding the same rigid expression all day.

When the final mourner departed, he rolled his massive shoulders and turned toward his chambers. The solitude beckoned—another bottle of whiskey, another night of numbing the pain.

“Charov.”

Her voice wrapped around him like a warm hug. Bess stood in the corridor’s shadows, still wearing that purple dress that clung to her curves. Her eyes were soft with concern, not pity. He appreciated the distinction.

“Bess.” His bear inched forward at her scent. “You should be resting. It’s been a long day.”

She moved closer, not intimidated by his size or the growl beneath his words. “So should you. But I know you won’t.” Her hand touched his arm, warm through the fabric of his formal attire. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

His bear roused fully inside him, demanding.Woods. Mate. Now.

For once, Charov didn’t fight the primal impulse. “Walk with me.”

“Where to?”

“The forest.” He didn’t ask—he commanded. “I need... space.”

She nodded, slipping her hand into his without hesitation. “Lead the way.”

The guards straightened as they passed but said nothing. Royalty had its privileges, even in mourning.

Once beyond the castle walls, Charov felt his chest expand. The forest called to his bear, the ancient trees offering sanctuary no marble hall could provide. Night birds scattered at their approach as he led Bess deeper into the woods.

“My father brought me here when I was a cub,” he said abruptly, the words tearing from his throat. “Taught me to track and to hunt.”

Bess squeezed his hand. “Tell me about him.”

The dam finally broke. A roar ripped from Charov’s chest—not quite human, not fully bear. He fell to his knees on the forest floor, hunched over as his grief tore through him.

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