Devon's POV
I excused myself, muttering something about the cut.
Not because I gave a damn about the bleeding — no.
But because I couldn't risk anyone seeing the way the skin was already stitching itself together under the blood.
Too fast. Too unnatural.
Too… wolf.
Franco was on my heels before I even made it to the hallway.
Always fucking watching me like a hawk.
"Devon—"
"Not now," I growled.
Pushed through the side door, into the private restroom off the gala floor.
The door slammed shut behind us.
My hands were shaking as I gripped the sink, blood dripping from between my fingers.
I met my reflection — face pale, eyes too bright, pulse thrumming like a war drum in my throat.
Franco hovered near the door, voice low but firm.
"You're losing grip."
I snarled, whipping around.
"The injections aren't enough anymore!"
The words tore out of me like a confession. Raw. Ugly.
"The silver—it's not holding him back!"
Franco's jaw ticked, eyes flashing with concern.
"Then maybe it's time you took a step back. A break. Go to the islands — run with the pack. Let your wolf out before he takes you down from the inside."
The islands.
The one place I could go and be what I am.
The one place I couldn't risk.
Because the wolf didn't just want to run.
He wanted him.
And I wasn't ready to admit that.
Not to Franco.
Hell, not even to myself.
Franco stepped closer, voice softening like he could smell the war raging in me.
"You know what your wolf needs, Devon. I can see it. You've been fighting him tooth and nail, but he's going to win if you don't—"
I snapped my head up.
"Drop it, Franco."
Voice like a blade, cutting the conversation clean.
"I know what I'm doing."
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't push.
Not yet.
"What are you gonna do about that, though?"
He gestured to my arm — the one already healing too clean, too fast.
"Eleanor saw you get hurt. She's gonna ask questions when there's no trace tomorrow."
I blinked.
Realised he was right.
The wound had already closed, the blood drying on smooth skin.
"I know," I muttered.
Swallowed against the bile rising in my throat.
"Tell her…. I'll keep it bandaged, make a show of it."
I flexed my hand, feeling the skin tight but intact.
"Get me a wrap or something. Make it look believable."
Franco just stared at me for a beat too long.
Like he could see deeper.
Like he knew.
But he didn't say it.
Didn't call me out.
Just nodded, tight and grim.
"Fine."
I turned back to the mirror, my own eyes now dull and flat.
The gala music thumped faintly beyond the walls, but in here, all I could hear was the ragged sound of my breathing.
And my wolf.
Still snarling.
Still hungry.
—
Later, back in the suite, the silence between me and Eleanor was heavier than stone.
She moved around the bedroom in her robe, soft fabric whispering against skin.
I stood by the dresser, shirt off, arm wrapped in the bandages Franco brought — a pathetic attempt at normalcy.
Eleanor approached, eyes flicking to the wrapped hand.
She reached out, fingers cool against my skin.
"How do you feel now?"
Voice calm. Soft. Almost sweet.
I swallowed.
"Fine."
Lie.
But she hummed like she believed me. Or wanted to.
She shifted, meeting my eyes, and I felt it — the change.
Her mood is turning.
Sharper now.
"Devon… about Jimmie."
His name hit me like a slap.
I stiffened, throat closing.
She noticed. Of course she did.
Women like her always did.
Always watching. Always reading between the lines.
"I've seen the way you act around him."
She folded her arms.
"And I'd appreciate it if you treated him a little kinder."
My lips parted.
To protest.
To deny.
But she kept going, pinning me with that political wife smile that was all sweetness and venom.
"People are starting to notice. You know what they'd say if they thought the President was being… unaccommodating to his wife's gay assistant."
Her words punched the air out of me.
Gay.
That's what she thought this was.
My vision wavered.
My wolf shifted uneasily inside, growling low, not at her words, but at me.
At this whole farce.
"I'm not homophobic," I blurted, voice rough and uneven.
Eleanor raised a brow, smug smile dancing on her lips like I'd just confirmed her suspicions.
"Really?"
She stepped closer, too close.
"I saw the way you looked at him tonight. And the guy he was speaking to."
Her smile turned razor sharp.
"Repulse was written all over your face. And now we've got a broken glass and a bandaged arm to show for it."
I just… stared at her.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Because gods, she didn't know.
Didn't know that this wasn't about Jimmie's orientation.
It wasn't about politics.
It wasn't about image.
No.
It was about the fact that fate — cruel, twisted fate — had tied my soul to that boy across the hall.
Had made him mine in a way I never asked for.
Never wanted.
Could never have.
Jimmie wasn't just some kid assistant.
He was my mate.
My forbidden, unwanted mate.
And Eleanor had no goddamn clue.
She softened then, reaching up to stroke my face.
"C'mon, babe. Just give the lad a chance. I'm not asking you to be friends or anything… but be nice around him. For me."
My wolf…
Weirdly, he didn't snarl this time.
Didn't lash out at her words like usual.
Just went eerily quiet.
And that silence scared me more than the growls ever did.
I cupped her face suddenly, desperate to drown it all out.
The truth.
The guilt.
The gnawing ache inside me.
I kissed her.
Fiercely.
Like I could kiss the beast out of me.
She gasped, surprised but welcoming, pressing into me.
Her robe slipped, leaving her in those tiny undergarments.
My hand slid down, fingers tracing the soft skin of her thigh before slipping between her legs.
She moaned, high and needy, arching into my touch.
I kissed her harder, fingers thrusting in and out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
My wolf… he recoiled, disgusted.
But I ignored him.
Like I always did.
With a growl, I lifted her off the ground, yanking my pants down just enough to free myself.
And then I was inside her.
Deep.
Hard.
Lifting and bouncing her on me as she trailed biting kisses down my neck.
"I love it when you do this," she panted in my ear.
I clenched my eyes shut, trying — trying — to lose myself in the sensation.
But then…
Jimmie's face flashed in my mind.
Those soft lips.
Those laughing eyes.
And I snapped my hips harder, chasing the high like a man possessed.
Eleanor's grip on my neck tightened, signalling she was close.
Her moans pitched higher, her body clenching around me as she came, trembling.
And I followed, not out of pleasure…
But out of guilt.
Out of duty.
Out of desperate, bitter denial.
She slumped against me, still impaled on me, both of us panting in the aftermath.
Her breath was warm against my throat.
Her body is soft.
But inside?
Inside, I was cold.
Numb.
Empty.
I closed my eyes, whispering the only prayer I had left.
"Gods… help me."
Or maybe…
"Somebody, fucking help me before I burn this all to the ground."
*****
Jimmie's POV
I stood by the balcony of the presidential suite, arms crossed, the wind tugging at my sleeves.
The storm was still growling over the city, heavy clouds blotting out the stars.
Astria always looked different in the rain — the sharp gold and silver lights bleeding into puddles on the streets below, like the whole city was melting.
I wasn't ready to leave yet.
Didn't want to step out into the chaos until the storm decided to pass.
But really, I was just… standing there.
Stalling.
My eyes flicked over the skyline, but my mind wasn't on the city.
It was back in that ballroom.
Back on him.
President Devon James.
The man who barely looked my way without setting his jaw like I'd personally offended him just by existing.
The man whose stare tonight had burned holes in me across the room.
Cold.
Sharp.
Angry.
And yet…
I sighed, raking a hand through my hair.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why can't I get over this stupid, sulky crush?
On someone who didn't like me. At all.
But there was this thing. This pull.
I couldn't name it. Couldn't explain it.
It was just… there.
Constant.
Lurking under my skin like static.
A flicker of movement caught my eye.
I turned just in time to see Devon storming out through the side exit of the building, his shoulders rigid, movements stiff like he was barely holding himself together.
And I felt it.
That tug.
That invisible string inside me is yanking tight.
Concern — sharp and sudden — punched through my chest.
I didn't know him.
Not really.
But watching him storm out like that made something in me ache.
Made me want to follow.
Made me want to… help?
God. I didn't even know.
"Your ride is ready, Mr. Portland. The wind has subsided," a staff member's voice broke through my thoughts.
I blinked.
Right.
Time to go.
Time to get out of this damn place and call it a night.
"Thanks," I muttered, clearing my throat and straightening my jacket.
But my pulse was still racing for reasons I didn't understand.
I made my way out of the suite, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the empty, marble-floored hallway.
The storm outside had died down, but inside me, it felt like it was just getting started.
As I turned a corner heading for the elevators, I froze.
Devon was there.
Standing right in the corridor.
Alone.
My breath hitched.
We were the only two people in the space, and the walls suddenly felt closer.
Too close.
Panic flared in my chest.
Do I turn back? Pretend I forgot something?
Or do I just… keep moving?
I swallowed hard.
Choose the latter.
Head down. Fast steps. Don't make eye contact.
But as I passed him — gods — I felt it.
Like electricity snapping under my skin.
My whole body tensed, the hairs on my arms standing on end.
Like he'd touched me.
Except he hadn't. Had he?
Then, without warning, his hand shot out.
Fingers wrapped around my wrist — firm, hot, claiming.
Pinning me back against the cool wall before I could even process what was happening.
My heart leapt into my throat.
Eyes wide.
Breathe shallow.
Devon's face was inches from mine, his chest rising and falling like he was fighting something savage.
His grip on me was tight, not painful, but strong enough that I couldn't pull away even if I wanted to.
And for a terrifying, breathless second, I thought — this is it.
This is where he finally says all the things he's been holding back.
The reason he looks at me like he hates me and wants me dead.
But then…
Devon blinked.
His hand jerked back like I'd burned him.
He stepped away, fast and stiff, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to hide them.
I stood there, chest heaving, the spot where he'd grabbed me tingling like it had been branded.
I touched my wrist, fingers shaking.
Felt the heat still lingering there.
"What…?"
My voice came out broken, breathless.
I looked up, but Devon was already turning away, storming off again without a word.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just touched me and turned my whole body into a live wire.
I stayed there, frozen against the wall, my heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.
My mind is racing.
What the hell is going on?