Page 5 of Asking Fur Trouble

“But you won’t,” Oberon said simply.

“No.” Charov shoved away from the rock face and reached for the next handhold. “I won’t. But for today, I’m still just a bear shifter who needs to climb.”

He attacked the rest of the ascent with fierce determination as if he could outclimb the destiny waiting for him below.

Later that evening, Charov sprawled across his oversized bed, his muscles pleasantly sore from the day’s climb. His royal quarters—all massive timber beams, stone walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows—glowed silver in the moonlight. He had showered away the sweat and dust of Mount Sarakon, but the exhilaration still hummed in his veins.

The ride back to the castle had been too short. Each turn of the wheels had brought him closer to the reality he was trying to escape—a dying father, a heartbroken mother, and the imminent weight of a crown he’d always known would be his. But not like this. Not this soon.

He reached for the crystal decanter on his bedside table and poured three fingers of Nova Auroran whiskey into a glass. The burn down his throat matched the fire in his chest—grief, anger, and a restless energy that demanded release.

FOUR

His 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.

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