Page 9 of Asking Fur Trouble

“King Sawyr sends his regrets,” Queen Zyre continued. “He’s indisposed with matters of state today.”

Charov made a sound—something between a grunt and a sigh—that drew Bess’s attention back to him. His expression had darkened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. When he noticed her watching, his face smoothed into practiced charm.

“Ms. Campos.” His voice was deep, rumbling like distant thunder. “Welcome to our home.”

Bess stood frozen as he approached, taking her hand in his much larger one. Heat radiated from his skin, sending tendrils of warmth up her arm. Up close, she caught his scent—pine forests after rain and something wild and masculine that made her pulse quicken.

“We’re so pleased you accepted Gerri’s invitation,” he continued, his eyes moving over her with unmistakable male appreciation. His gaze lingered on the curves of her hips before returning to her face with a heat that made her face flush.

“I’m happy to be here,” she managed, though “overwhelmed” would have been more accurate.

They spoke with the queen for nearly half an hour, Gerri and Zyre bantering while Bess tried not to stare at Charov. He remained mostly silent, answering when addressed but volunteering nothing. Yet his eyes barely left Bess, tracking her smallest movements with predatory focus.

“Charov,” Gerri finally said, “why don’t you show Bess the royal gallery? She’s quite interested in your family’s history.”

“I am?” Bess whispered.

“You are,” Gerri confirmed with a wink.

Charov stood and helped Bess out of her chair. “It would be my pleasure.”

His hand on her back sent electricity through her body as they left the room, and Bess couldn’t help but feel like prey being led away by a particularly magnificent predator.

After about twenty minutes, Bess struggled to match Charov’s long strides as he led her through corridor after gleaming corridor. Her heels slipped against the polished marble that seemed to contain actual stardust, glittering with each step she took.

“This hallway contains portraits of every Mavac ruler for the past three hundred years,” Charov explained, his voice a practiced tour-guide monotone. His hand rested at the small of her back, the heat from his palm burning through her thin blouse.

Bess nodded, attempting to appear fascinated by the stern-faced bear shifters whose eyes seemed to follow her from their frames. “They all have the same... intensity.”

“A family trait.” His gaze swept over her again, lingering on her curves. “We’re known for our... appetites.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of how her basic blouse and skirt must appear to him.

The massive room stretched longer than a football field, paintings interspersed with gleaming weapons and artifacts. Charov recited dynasties and conquests while suddenly keeping a careful distance between them. Despite his apparent disinterest, his eyes kept returning to her, hot and assessing in a way that made her skin prickle with awareness.

“And this medallion was awarded to my great-grandfather after the Battle of—” He broke off, seeming to realize he was losing her. “I apologize if this bores you.”

“Not at all,” Bess lied, fighting the urge to fidget. “Earth’s history is much the same. Men fighting over land, power changing hands.”

His mouth twitched. “A cynic.”

“A realist,” she countered.

Something in his expression shifted, like he’d momentarily seen something interesting before dismissing it. “We should return. Dinner will be served soon.”

Disappointment settled in Bess’s stomach. So much for an alien prince romance. She had traveled across the galaxy to meet a man who was as emotionally distant as her last blind date, just with better abs and a crown.

The dining room dazzled with crystal chandeliers that seemed to float without support. Bess slid into a chair, admiring tableware that shimmered with opalescent light.

“So, Bess,” Queen Zyre began, her smile warm, “Gerri tells me you process insurance claims. That sounds fascinating.”

“Oh, um, it’s really not,” Bess laughed nervously. “Unless you enjoy paperwork and angry phone calls.”

Gerri chimed in, “Bess is being modest. She’s incredibly efficient and smart. Her company has great success because of her.”

“Former company,” Bess corrected, still reeling at the thought of her emailed resignation. “I quit yesterday.”

Charov’s eyebrow arched. “Impulsive.”

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