Page 60 of Asking Fur Trouble

The mate bond pulsed painfully, and Charov fought to keep his expression neutral. Bess was close—and terrified.

“Of course,” Kynon finally relented, his smile strained. “Please, come in, Your Majesty.”

Charov remained on the threshold, deliberately not crossing yet. “Excellent. I’ve also been particularly interested in discussing the lower levels of your estate. I hear they’re... quite remarkable.”

The flicker of panic that crossed Kynon’s face confirmed everything. Charov stepped inside, the scent hitting him like a physical blow—Bess’s warm citrus and floral notes, tinged with fear and something metallic. Blood. His vision sharpened, his bear rising dangerously closer to the surface.

“Your Majesty, you seem unusually interested in architecture today,” Kynon attempted, positioning himself between Charov and the corridor leading deeper into the house.

Charov smiled, all teeth and no warmth. “Cut the shit, Kynon. I smell her.”

He brushed past the duke with deliberate force, knocking him off balance. Nya made a small, strangled sound.

“She left! She’s returning to Earth!” Nya’s voice pitched higher as Charov stalked down the hallway, following his mate’s scent.

“Try again,” Charov growled, not bothering to look back. “My mate would never leave without saying good-bye. And she certainly wouldn’t leave me for you two backstabbing opportunists.”

The scent grew stronger, leading him toward an ornate door at the end of the hall. Locked. Charov felt a predatory satisfaction at the obstacle—as if a mere lock could stop him from reaching what was his.

He felt movement behind him and spun, catching Kynon’s descending arm mid-strike. The man had pulled a ceremonial dagger from a wall display.

“Really?” Charov twisted, forcing the blade from Kynon’s grasp. “You thought you’d stab the king in the back and get away with it?”

Kynon’s eyes flashed amber. “I would have been a better king than you’ll ever be.”

“You’re welcome to keep believing that in the afterlife.” Charov slammed his fist into the door, splintering the ancient wood around the lock. One more blow and it gave way completely.

A staircase descended into darkness. Bess’s scent pulled him down, each step fueling his rage. At the bottom, another door—this one reinforced steel.

“She’s going to die down there anyway,” Nya called from the top of the stairs, her voice trembling with defiant fear. “And so will you.”

The locks on the steel door were formidable, but Charov was beyond finesse. His skin rippled as his bear pushed forward, demanding release.

“You first,” he snarled, whirling to face the couple.

They shifted in unison—two massive bears, smaller than Charov’s form but dangerous in the confined space. Nya’s bear was sleek and pale, Kynon’s a muddy brown. They blocked the stairway, trapping him.

Charov let out a low growl. “Perfect.”

His own shift was explosive—bones cracking and reforming, muscles swelling and expanding, dark fur erupting along his massive frame. The corridor was barely large enough to contain him. His bear roared, the sound shaking dust from the ceiling.

Kynon lunged first. Charov caught him mid-air, using the smaller bear’s momentum to slam him into the wall. Stone cracked under the impact. Nya darted in, catching Charov’s flank with her claws. He bellowed in pain but twisted with impossible speed, his massive paw connecting with her head in a sickening crack.

Nya staggered, clearly disoriented. Charov seized the moment to ram his shoulder against the steel door. The hinges groaned but held. He roared in frustration, the sound drowning out Kynon’s growl as the duke recovered.

The two male bears collided in a blur of teeth and claws. Charov fought with cold precision despite his rage, each movement calculated for maximum damage. When Kynon exposed his throat, Charov didn’t hesitate. His jaws closed around the vulnerable flesh and tore.

Blood sprayed across the stone floor. Nya screamed—a horrible sound, half-human in her bear form—and charged blindly. Charov caught her with a brutal blow that shattered her skull against the wall.

Silence fell, broken only by Charov’s heavy breathing and a muffled sound from behind the door. Bess.

He shifted partially back, keeping his enhanced strength but regaining opposable thumbs. Blood dripped from his hands as he tore at the locks, metal shrieking in protest.

The door finally gave way. Inside, Bess lay bound to a chair, her eyes wide above a gag. When she saw him—half-shifted, covered in blood—she didn’t recoil in fear. Instead, relief flooded her expression.

Charov crossed to her in two strides, gently removing her gag.

“Took you long enough,” she gasped, a tremulous smile breaking through her fear.

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