Page 4

FOUR

H is bear prowled beneath his skin, beyond agitated. The animal didn’t understand politics, only pack and territory and the primal need to run free. Sometimes Charov envied its simplicity.

A sharp rap at the door interrupted his brooding. Before he could respond, Torborn Arona—the royal assistant whose spine seemed permanently fused into a straight line—stepped into the room.

“Your Highness.” Torborn bowed so precisely it could have been measured with a protractor. “The King requests your presence immediately.”

Charov didn’t move, deliberately swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Does my father request me, or does the King command me? There’s a difference, Torborn.”

The assistant’s face remained impassive, though a muscle in his jaw twitched. “His Majesty used the word ‘request,’ Your Highness. But his condition has... deteriorated since this morning.”

The glass froze midway to Charov’s lips. Something cold slithered down his spine, but he kept his face neutral. “Deteriorated how?”

“The royal physician believes His Majesty may not survive much longer.”

The words landed like physical blows. Not weeks anymore. Just days.

Charov set the glass down with deliberate care, though his bear wanted to hurl it against the wall. “When were you planning to tell me this, Torborn? Before or after I finished my drink?”

“I’m telling you now, Your Highness.” A rare flash of emotion—something close to sympathy—crossed Torborn’s face. “And if I may speak plainly...”

“When have you ever not?”

“Your father is asking for his son. Not the prince. His son.”

Charov stood, his imposing height forcing Torborn to look up. The bear in him wanted to roar, to break something, to run until his lungs burned and his legs gave out.

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.” His voice came out steadier than he felt.

“Your Highness, I don’t believe ‘shortly’ is?—”

“I said I’ll be there.” The words rumbled with a touch of his bear’s growl. “Now leave me.”

Torborn bowed again and retreated, closing the door silently behind him.

Charov began pacing his chambers like a caged predator, each step marked by the flexing of his powerful muscles beneath his tailored black shirt. A vase nearly toppled as he passed, his broad shoulder clipping the pedestal. He caught it with lightning reflexes, then considered smashing it against the wall anyway. The destruction would match the chaos inside him.

He ran his fingers through his dark hair, disheveling the perfect style he normally maintained. “Fuck,” he growled, the word bouncing off the stone walls.

After five more minutes of useless pacing, Charov straightened his shoulders and headed toward his father’s royal chambers. The guards posted outside stiffened to attention as he approached, their eyes carefully avoiding his. They knew. The entire castle probably knew by now. It wouldn’t be long before his father was dead.

The royal chambers smelled of medicine and illness—scents that assaulted his sensitive shifter nose. His mother sat beside the massive bed where his father lay propped against silk pillows. The once-mighty bear shifter king had been reduced to a shadow, his broad frame now gaunt and his golden skin ashen. Only his eyes remained unchanged—piercing amber orbs that locked onto Charov with unwavering authority as Charov entered the room.

“Son.” The word was barely a whisper, yet it held the weight of command.

“Father.” Charov crossed to the bed, kneeling beside it despite his aversion to submissive postures. Even dying, his father deserved respect.

The king’s hand trembled as he reached for his son. Charov clasped it, shocked by how cold the skin felt. Bear shifters ran hot—always. The chill in his father’s fingers was more alarming than any medical diagnosis.

“Mavac Territory needs stability,” his father said, pausing for a labored breath. “And you... need a queen.”

Charov’s muscles tightened. “With all due respect, Father, I think Mavac Territory needs a strong king first. Let me establish myself before?—”

“No.” The king’s voice strengthened momentarily. “Our people need to see continuity. They need to know our line is secure. I need...” He faltered, rare emotion breaking through his kingly facade. “I need to know you won’t be alone.”

Charov felt trapped, perfectly cornered. The bear inside him snarled at the constraint. “Father, finding a mate takes time. It’s not something?—”

“I’ve taken care of that,” his mother interjected softly. Her elegant hand stroked her mate’s arm, but her gaze fixed on her son. “I’ve contacted Gerri Wilder.”

The name hit Charov like ice water. Gerri Wilder—the paranormal matchmaker whose reputation extended across worlds. The woman who claimed 100 percent success in finding true mates.

The woman who would effectively end his freedom altogether.

“You what?” Heat flushed through him, his bear rising dangerously close to the surface. “Without consulting me first?”

“Your father is dying,” his mother snapped, fire flashing in her eyes. “And his last wish is to see his bloodline secure. Is that too much to ask, Charov? Is your... lifestyle ... worth denying him peace?”

Charov recoiled as if slapped. The barb found its mark. His “lifestyle” as she delicately put it—the string of willing partners, the avoidance of commitment, the constant chase for the next thrill—suddenly seemed trivial against his father’s mortality.

“She’s found someone,” his father rasped. “A human woman. Your match.”

“Already?” Charov didn’t bother hiding his dismay.

His father’s grip tightened with surprising strength. “Promise me, son. Promise you’ll meet her. Wed her. Continue our line.”

Charov stared into his father’s golden eyes, seeing both the king and the father who had taught him to shift, to hunt, and to lead. The man who had shaped him into who he was.

“I promise,” Charov said finally, the words tasting extremely bitter. “I’ll meet this woman. I’ll...” He swallowed hard. “I’ll wed her for Mavac.”

Relief flooded his father’s face, and his mother’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

Inside, Charov’s bear howled in protest. He silently vowed to keep emotional distance from this arranged mate. He would fulfill his duty, but he would fortify his heart against the kind of love his parents shared—the kind that was destroying his mother as his father slipped away.

There was no possible way he would ever allow himself to be so vulnerable.