Page 52 of Asking Fur Trouble

“The Nueles,” she muttered, tapping her fingers against her thigh as she walked. “Something’s not right there.”

Ever since the ball invitation debacle, an uneasy feeling had settled in her gut about that couple. Their polished smiles didn’t reach their eyes, and the way they’d positioned themselves to make her look incompetent. This petition Kynon mentioned couldn’t be a coincidence.

Bess pulled the silken bell rope beside her door, and within moments, Emesyn appeared.

“You needed something, Lady Bess?”

“Emesyn, I need your help.” Bess leaned in, lowering her voice although they were alone. “How connected are you with the other staff in the territory?”

Emesyn raised a knowing eyebrow. “Very. My cousin works in the Nuele household, and my brother-in-law handles deliveries for most of the noble families.”

“Perfect.” Bess’s heart raced with renewed purpose. “I need information about the Nueles—specifically about this petition against Charov and whether they orchestrated that invitation mix-up.”

The servant’s eyes widened. “You think they’re behind all this?”

“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.” Bess reached for Emesyn’s hands, squeezing them gently. “Charov is actually considering stepping down. I can’t let that happen—not because of me, and certainly not for the benefit of those two vipers.”

Emesyn’s expression hardened with loyalty. “The king belongs on his throne. I’ll put the word out discreetly.”

“Thank you. And Emesyn?” Bess bit her lip. “Can you ask Torborn to look into who had access to Charov’s schedule before that ball? Someone deliberately removed that invitation.”

After Emesyn departed, Bess sank onto her bed, her mind racing. Had she been so focused on her own insecurities that she’d failed to see the political machinations happening around them? The paper-pusher in her wanted evidence, facts, a trail she could follow.

A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find Oberon filling the doorframe with his massive presence.

“His Majesty asked me to check if you require anything,” he rumbled, but his eyes held something more—concern, perhaps suspicion.

Bess straightened her spine. “Actually, yes. I need allies who care about Charov as much as I do.”

Oberon’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted. “Go on.”

“The Nueles are orchestrating a coup,” she said bluntly. “I need to prove it before Charov makes a terrible mistake.”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across the bear shifter’s face. “I knew there was a reason he chose you.” He stepped into her room, closing the door. “My cousin guards the territorial records office. If anyone’s gathering signatures for a petition, they’ll have filed initial paperwork there.”

Bess felt a flutter of hope. “Can your cousin check who initiated it?”

“Consider it done.” Oberon’s massive arms crossed over his chest. “What else?”

“We need to find out who tampered with Charov’s schedule before the ball.”

“The royal scheduler answers directly to Torborn,” Oberon nodded. “I’ll speak with him personally.”

Bess felt her confidence returning. She wasn’t just some Earth woman in over her head—she was a problem solver, a paper trail expert, and apparently, already thinking like a queen.

THIRTY-SIX

Charov 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.”

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