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TWENTY

T he question hit Charov hard. His grip loosened.

“I was with Bess last night,” Charov said, stepping back. “She was...” Words failed him. How could he possibly describe the way she’d moved against him, the sounds she’d made, the way her eyes had held his as if seeing straight into his soul?

“She was everything,” he admitted finally, the fight draining out of him.

His bear growled with agreement: Mate. Ours.

“And that’s what scares you shitless.”

Charov ran his hands through his hair. “I watched as my mother lay wailing over my father’s lifeless body this morning. Like her world had ended.”

“And yet,” Oberon said quietly, “I bet if you asked her, she would say it was worth it. Every moment.”

The following afternoon, Charov sat rigid beside his mother, his massive frame dwarfing the ornate ceremonial chair. The great hall of the castle had been transformed for the viewing of his father’s body—the late King Sawyr lay in state on a raised dais, dressed in royal regalia, looking more peaceful than he had in months. The line of mourners stretched beyond the castle walls, a testament to his father’s legacy.

Hours blurred together as Charov accepted condolences with mechanical nods and murmured thanks. His bear chafed beneath his skin, wanting to roar its grief into the wilderness rather than maintain this veneer of controlled dignity. But the crown—though not yet physically placed on his head—already weighed on him, demanding his composure.

His mother occasionally squeezed his hand, her touch anchoring him to the present when his mind threatened to drift too far. Her eyes remained dry now, her grief transformed into something quiet and dignified that somehow felt even more devastating than her earlier wailing.

“Your Highness.” The royal chamberlain leaned close. “The Duke and Duchess Nuele have arrived.”

Charov nodded, straightening imperceptibly. The Nueles had been his parents’ closest advisors and friends. If anyone understood the burden he now faced, it would be them.

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.

“He was everything a king should be,” he gasped. “Strong. Just. He protected what was his, and I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t protect him.”

Bess dropped beside him, her arms encircling his massive frame without fear. “You gave him peace, Charov. He saw his son find his mate before he passed.”

“I’m supposed to be stronger than this.” His fist pounded the earth. “What kind of king breaks?”

“The kind who loved his father.” She cradled his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “The kind who feels deeply enough to make a good king.”

Her words penetrated the wall of grief. Charov leaned into her touch, his bear settling under her gentle hands. For the first time since seeing his father’s lifeless body, he felt like he could breathe.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured against her palm.

Bess nodded. “Whatever you need.”

“I need you,” he said simply, the admission costing him less than he’d expected. His bear rumbled in agreement as something fundamental shifted between them—a deepening of their bond that transcended physical desire.

As Bess wrapped her arms around him again in the sacred quiet of the forest, he finally allowed himself to fully grieve.