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THIRTY-SIX

C harov slammed the door to his royal study. The ancient wood reverberated with the force of his frustration. His heart hammered in his chest like a wounded animal. The ring box felt like a lead weight in his pocket, mocking him with each movement.

“Damn it all,” he growled, pacing across the polished stone floor. His inner bear roared in confusion—how could their mate hesitate? The animal inside him couldn’t comprehend what had happened, could only feel the sting of perceived rejection.

He yanked off his suit jacket and tossed it across a nearby chair, then braced his hands against the massive oak desk. The documents scattered beneath his palms—petitions, treaties, requests—all meaningless compared to the turmoil in his heart.

“Your Majesty?” Torborn’s voice came after a gentle knock and the door opening a crack.

“Enter,” Charov barked, not bothering to straighten or compose himself.

Torborn slipped inside and shut the door behind him, his expression carefully neutral as he assessed his king’s state. “I take it the proposal did not go as planned.”

Charov let out a bitter laugh. “She didn’t even answer, Torborn. Just... froze. As if the very idea of being my queen horrified her.” He pushed away from the desk and stalked to the window overlooking the royal gardens where he and Bess had walked just days before. “Perhaps Kynon is right. Perhaps I should just step down.”

“Because of one awkward moment?” Torborn poured two glasses of Auroran brandy from the crystal decanter. “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but that seems rather impulsive, even for you.”

Charov accepted the offered glass, downing half its contents in one swallow. The liquid burned pleasantly down his throat. “If my true mate rejects me, what hope is there for our royal lineage? What’s the point of fighting for a throne that will end with me?”

Torborn settled into a chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Women are complex creatures, Your Majesty. Human women even more so.” He took a contemplative sip. “Emesyn has explained to me that humans don’t have our instinctual recognition of mates and destinies. They require... time.”

“Time,” Charov repeated, the word tasting sour on his tongue. “We’ve had time.”

“A few weeks isn’t ‘time’ by human standards. They form attachments differently.” Torborn leaned forward. “And if I may be so bold, dismissing her and not giving her a chance to explain wasn’t your finest moment as a potential life partner.”

Charov’s bear growled at the criticism, but the man recognized the truth in it. He rubbed a hand across his face. “I panicked. The rejection hurt.”

“Was it truly rejection, though? Or was she simply surprised? Perhaps overwhelmed?” Torborn’s voice softened. “Emesyn tells me that Miss Bess has been uprooted from everything familiar to her. And now she’s expected to become queen of a territory on a planet she didn’t know existed mere weeks ago.”

The heaviness of Torborn’s words settled on Charov’s shoulders. He hadn’t considered how alien everything must still be to Bess.

“So, what am I supposed to do?” Charov asked, uncharacteristic vulnerability coloring his tone. “Watch her walk away?”

“Well, the last thing you should do is push her away,” Torborn said firmly. “Instead of retreating like a wounded bear, perhaps you should continue to court her. Make her comfortable. Help her gain the certainty that we shifters take for granted.”

Charov turned the advice over in his mind, his bear settling as it recognized the wisdom. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?”

“Not a fool, Your Majesty.” Torborn smiled. “Simply a man in love.”

The following morning, Charov tapped his fingers against the leather armrest of the royal transport, his bear’s impatience thrumming beneath his skin. Last night, after his conversation with Torborn, he’d paced his chambers until dawn, plotting how to mend what his wounded pride had damaged.

“Have the charity houses been informed of our visit?” he asked, adjusting the cuffs of his midnight blue suit.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Oberon glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “They’re quite excited. It’s been some time since royal attention has been focused on the children’s homes.”

Charov nodded, satisfaction mingling with the nervousness coiled in his stomach. When he’d sent the invitation to Bess’s chambers this morning, he’d half-expected her to decline—or worse, to have already packed for Earth. His relief when she had accepted had been embarrassingly palpable.

The royal transport slowed to a stop before the palace’s east entrance where Bess would be waiting. Charov quickly exited the transport and straightened, his heart accelerating as the door opened. And then she appeared.

The sight of her stole his breath. Bess stepped into the morning light wearing a shimmering yellow sundress, the Auroran fabric catching the sunlight like liquid gold against her skin. Her wavy brown hair cascaded freely around her shoulders, and the subtle curve of her hips beneath the flowing material made his bear rumble with possessive desire.

“Your Majesty.” She dipped her head in a small, formal greeting that made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

“Please,” he said, extending his hand to help her into the vehicle. “After everything we’ve shared, I think ‘Charov’ will suffice.”

Her fingers were warm against his palm, and he fought the urge to pull her directly into his arms. Instead, he let her settle beside him, close enough that her scent enveloped him.

As the transport pulled away from the palace, Charov studied her profile. The golden light streaming through the windows illuminated the delicate curve of her neck, the fullness of her lips that he’d tasted just days before.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he admitted.

Bess turned to face him, those piercing green eyes meeting his blue ones with a directness that both challenged and thrilled him. “I said I would talk to you. I keep my promises.”

He leaned closer, needing her to understand his actions from last night. “I’m not accustomed to uncertainty, Bess. My bear doesn’t handle it well.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Is that your way of apologizing?”

“My bear doesn’t apologize either,” he growled playfully, rewarded when her smile widened. “But the man does. I’m sorry, Bess. For pushing too hard and then walking away.”

The tension between them softened. She angled herself toward him, the movement causing her dress to shift against her curves in a way that made his blood heat.

“These charity houses,” she said, “tell me about them.”