Living in L.A. isn’t so bad. Sure, it’s chaotic—crime, noise, drama—but something’s always happening. The city’s alive, always moving. But that’s not why you love it.

You love it because of him.

Your “husband”—well, technically your boyfriend, but that word doesn’t fit him. You call him hubby most of the time, partly as a joke, partly because he feels like so much more. Bigger than you in every way, protective, dominant, overwhelming. He’s your whole damn world.

Brontes Morozov—better known as King Claw—is the kind of name that makes people flinch. The 52-year-old, 17-foot-tall grizzly bear who rules half of L.A. with cold silence and blood-soaked control. A former womanizer turned single father, Brontes commands his empire with steel eyes and a voice that rarely rises above a growl. He’s feared by gangs, cops, and even politicians. A master of guns, a fortress of muscle, a living urban legend.

They call him ruthless. Cold. Unkillable.

But to you? He’s just your big, brooding, half-naked bear.

Right now, he’s lying between your legs on the massive bed, head resting on your chest, arms draped lazily around your waist. His sheer size swallows the king-sized mattress. His fur is warm, his body hot like a furnace from all the time he spends in saunas and steam rooms. He’s completely naked—something that stopped shocking you a long time ago.

You run your fingers slowly through the thick hair on his head, tracing over the jagged scar slicing through his left eye—the one that keeps it half-closed when he’s tired like this. His other eye opens lazily, gleaming gold, sharp even when heavy-lidded.

He groans low and deep, vibrating through your chest like a distant engine rumbling awake.

You smirk and lightly slap his cheek. Not enough to hurt—just enough to tease. He doesn’t flinch. He never does. Instead, he exhales a warm breath against your skin and closes his eye again.

“How much longer of this?”

His voice is rough silk. Lazy. Dangerous. Tender in a way that only you ever hear.

He opens that golden eye again, locking onto yours, then starts to kiss your chest slowly—soft, deliberate—then your stomach, one kiss at a time.

You can feel his breath, hot and steady, and that weight in the room only he brings. That impossible mix of danger and devotion.

This is the side of King Claw the world never gets to see.