Jimmie's POV
"You're mine. Always mine."
I must've replayed those words a hundred times in my head before I even made it out of bed.
But let me back up.
Last night was… insane. After the awkward, heart-pounding scene in the bathroom where I found Devon gripping the sink, his chest heaving and eyes—those unnatural golden eyes—faintly glowing like something straight out of a fever dream… I had stood there, frozen. My breath caught. My brain is trying to rationalise it.
Maybe the lights had played tricks on me. Maybe I was overtired. Maybe…
Yeah, no. I wasn't hallucinating. I saw what I saw.
Still, I'd gone back to the table, shaky but trying to hold myself together for Eleanor's sake. I'd forced a smile when she asked if I was okay. Told her I just needed some fresh air.
She didn't press.
Devon never came back.
And maybe that was a good thing, because I don't know how I would've looked him in the eye without shaking. Not from fear. No… from the rush. The confusing, burning, ridiculous rush I got every time he was near.
By the time I got home, I could still feel the weight of his stare. The intensity. The tension that buzzed between us was like a live wire.
I lay in bed with the lights off, eyes wide open.
Thinking.
Overthinking.
Trying to sort through this tangle of emotion and confusion, I had no business entertaining.
I mean… he's my boss's husband.
The President of the country, for God's sake.
And a man.
A man who, until last week, I was sure hated me. Who looked at me with disdain. Who now looked at me like I was something else entirely.
And then… There was the dream.
I don't even know when I fell asleep. But when I did, it hit me like a wave.
I was standing in a hallway—dimly lit, cold, and quiet. My feet were bare. The floor beneath me was polished stone. It echoed under every tentative step I took.
I didn't know where I was going. Just that I was waiting… for something. Or someone.
Then out of the shadows… he emerged.
Tall. Broad. Powerful.
Golden eyes glowing like embers in the dark.
Devon.
But not Devon.
There was something otherworldly about him. His presence was magnetic, overwhelming. And he was shirtless—his skin rippled like it was alive, every muscle taut beneath a sheen of sweat. His face, though… that face was all too familiar.
Before I could move or even breathe, he was on me. Hands pressing against mine. Pinning me to the wall just like he had that night by the elevator.
His lips were by my ear. Hot breath brushing against my neck.
Then came the whisper.
"You're mine. Always mine."
And God help me… I whispered back, "Yes. I'm yours."
He leaned in.
Our lips were about to touch—so close I could taste him—
And I woke up.
"Ahh!" I shot up in bed, a full-body jolt like I'd just been electrocuted. Sheets tangled around my legs. Sweat was dampening the back of my neck.
I groaned.
Loudly.
"Seriously?" I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. "You've gotta be kidding me."
I fell back on the mattress with a thud. Stared at the ceiling as if it owed me answers.
"Jimmie Portland, you cannot be having these feelings. You absolutely cannot be having dreams about him pinning you to walls and whispering shit like that."
I practically yelled it at the ceiling.
This was out of control.
I was out of control.
Because now every time I blinked, I could see him. Could feel the pressure of his body against mine. Could hear the low growl of his voice in my ear.
This wasn't just a crush anymore.
It was an obsession.
A maddening, confusing, dangerous obsession.
And I needed to kill it.
I sat up again, bracing myself against the edge of the bed. My head was pounding. My heart was still racing.
Avoid him, I told myself.
Avoid Devon James like your life depends on it. Be distant. Be professional. Only speak to him if necessary. Let it go. Let. It. Go.
I repeated the mantra in my head like a spell.
I would keep it together. Starting now.
Because if I didn't, I wasn't just risking my job. I was risking everything.
Even worse?
I wasn't sure I'd come out of this still knowing who I was. Or what I wanted. Or if I even had the strength to walk away from something that felt like gravity pulling me in, over and over again.
I shook off the thoughts, pulled myself together, and dragged myself out of bed to get ready for work.
No more golden eyes.
No more fantasies.
No more Devon James.
I was going to bury this feeling so deep that not even he could dig it out.
At least… that's what I told myself.
—
Devon's POV
The beast within doesn't tolerate rejection well. Especially not from its mate.
I should've been focused on work. Should've been thinking about today's security briefing, the summit proposal, or even the media storm about the new diplomatic appointees. But all I could think about was him.
Jimmie.
Last night played on a maddening loop in my head—him walking in on me, gripping the sink, my golden eyes glowing in the mirror like wildfire. He saw it. I know he did. His reaction said it all.
He looked terrified.
And yet… something else flickered in his gaze, too. I can't name it. I don't want to. If I do, I'm afraid I'll start hoping. And hope is a dangerous thing when you're a man bound by duty... and a wolf fighting fate.
I leaned back against the leather seat of my convoy car, eyes locked on the tinted window as the city blurred past. We moved with full escort—black vehicles ahead, black vehicles behind. It was meant to feel powerful.
I felt like a caged animal.
That was too damn close, I told myself for the tenth time since morning.
I hadn't meant to let it slip. But the pull—his presence—was so strong, I could barely think straight. I lost control. The heat, the need, the pressure in my chest... my wolf wanted to claim him.
And it almost did.
If Jimmie hadn't knocked—if he had gotten a second closer…
I ran a hand down my face, frustrated, ashamed. And worst of all, aching.
When I came back from that bathroom last night, Eleanor was already in bed waiting. She took one look at me, at the sweat slicking my temples, at my trembling hands, and she didn't ask questions. Just reached for the blanket and wrapped it around me like she used to back when we were still in love.
Her voice was soft. "Dev, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said. The lie tasted bitter.
"Maybe you need a break," she said. "Everything's happening so fast. The presidency. The meetings. The pressure. Maybe you're just overwhelmed."
I smiled like I appreciated her concern. But my wolf growled at her touch. Her arms were warm, but they weren't his. My body shivered violently—not from cold, but from need. My wolf was rejecting everything that wasn't him.
Jimmie.
I couldn't tell her that.
I couldn't tell anyone that.
But I knew it now—there was no more denying it. My wolf was in heat. Desperate. Starving. And unless it was fed by the only thing it wanted—him—it would tear me apart from the inside out.
"We're almost there, sir," Franco's voice came from the front. "Staff's already gathering for the 10 a.m. session."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
I sat straighter, cleared my throat, and shoved my emotions down like always.
Still… I made a mental note to find Jimmie later. To apologise. To do something—anything—to ease the ache, the tension. Maybe get to know him? Maybe just… stop being such an ass?
But would that be crossing the line?
Wouldn't even standing too close be a betrayal?
I didn't know. And the not knowing made it worse.
The day dragged on with Jimmie nowhere in sight.
Or so I thought.
He wasn't at Eleanor's morning briefing. At least, not while I was there. But when I left and doubled back to grab my tablet, I spotted him through the glass—working quietly, quickly, eyes flicking over reports. And the second he saw me through the reflection, he bolted. Like a frightened deer.
That… hurt.
Later, I tried again—walked into Eleanor's study while she was reviewing her keynote. He was there. Talking to her. Laughing gently at something she'd said. But the moment I stepped inside, Jimmie's expression shut down. He grabbed a folder and excused himself in a tight, clipped tone.
"Ma'am, I'll get back to you with the revised itinerary."
Didn't even look at me.
Didn't say a word.
Gone before I could step further.
The rejection punched me in the gut.
By midday, I couldn't think straight. I was pacing my office like a lunatic. I tried working. I tried breathing exercises. I even tried meditation, which Franco had insisted I give a shot after my last outburst.
None of it worked.
And when I entered the late afternoon West Wing debrief—a full table of staffers, secretaries, and heads of department—it got worse.
Jimmie was there. Sitting across from me. Just a few chairs away, next to Eleanor, not even hiding the fact that he wouldn't meet my eyes.
Every time I looked his way, his gaze dropped. Or shifted. Or found some excuse to focus anywhere but me.
It was subtle. But to my wolf, it was brutal.
My grip tightened around the pen in my hand. I spoke to the room. Discussed policy updates. Interdepartmental collaborations. Global trade routes.
I made a point—one I thought was sharp, clear.
Still, no glance.
Just his pen, scribbling notes. His jaw was tight. Eyes glued to the page like I was invisible.
I don't know what snapped first—my patience, or the pen.
Crack.
The noise was sharp and unmistakable. Everyone turned to me.
The pen lay in two halves in my hand, ink trickling down my palm like black blood.
I cleared my throat. "Apologies. Must've been defective."
But I felt the room change. Eleanor's head tilted. Franco raised a brow. The energy in the room went cold.
And Jimmie?
Didn't even blink.
Didn't react.
He just kept writing.
Like I didn't exist.
And I don't know what made me want to howl louder—his silence… or the way it made my wolf curl up inside me and whimper.
I didn't remember the end of the meeting. Couldn't recall who said what, who got up first. All I remember is sitting there with the shattered pen still in my palm, staring at the spot where Jimmie had been, trying to understand how I'd let it get this far.
He was avoiding me.
And maybe he should.
Because deep down… I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold back.
And the worst part?
I wasn't sure I wanted to.