Devon's
I stopped going to the morning briefings.
Skipped the infrastructure meeting. Dodged the delegation from Sylverin. I even sent Franco in my place to meet with the Senate Majority Leader, a move so out of protocol it had half the cabinet buzzing by the afternoon. I didn't care. I couldn't care.
Not when I could feel my wolf clawing beneath my skin.
Not when I could feel him watching Jimmie.
Waiting.
Craving.
Every time I caught the scent of Jimmie's cologne—faint but stubborn—it felt like my ribs were being pried open. He'd been avoiding me, keeping his distance like he was afraid to breathe the same air. Smart. Maybe even necessary. I'd been barely holding it together since that hallway incident. Hell, I'm not even sure how I managed to stop myself from kissing him. Marking him.
Taking him.
And now? My wolf was snarling inside me day and night, pacing, raging at the leash I could no longer tighten.
I'd been proud once, stupidly proud, of my control. Years of training, of rituals, injections, discipline—gone. This presidency... Jimmie... the bond was wrecking me. I wasn't just distracted. I was dangerous. I could feel it in my blood.
Franco tried to cover for me. Always loyal. Always two steps ahead.
"You're circling disaster," he warned me yesterday in that even, measured voice of his, after slipping into my office with a tablet filled with red-flag headlines and committee meeting notes. "Whatever this is, Devon, you need to reel it in. Fast."
I didn't have a response. Not one that wouldn't make me sound insane.
Because the truth was, I was losing.
Not politically. Not to Jim Halvorsen or the whispering senators. No—I was losing to myself.
To my wolf.
And the press was beginning to feed.
Eleanor had been showing up alone to events. Ribbon cuttings, policy briefings, even state dinners. Alone. She did her best to shield me from the fallout, always composed, poised—God, that woman was fire and steel—but I could see the cracks beginning to form in her eyes.
I watched her most recent interview from the shadows of my study, the screen flickering in the dark like it might burn me alive. She was seated gracefully, not a hair out of place, her voice steady and regal. The reporter—some bold-faced vulture from Channel 4—had the gall to lean in and ask:
"First Lady... there's been concern among the public about the President's health. Some have suggested... is the President under any form of substance influence? Any medication affecting his capacity?"
My blood boiled.
But Eleanor... she didn't flinch.
She smiled, slow and deliberate.
"The President of Astria bears a weight that most of us cannot begin to imagine. It's a role that demands more than policy or speeches—it demands a soul."
"If he's distant, it's because he's carrying a country on his back. Not a syringe in his hand."
"Let's be clear," she said, steel beneath velvet, "The President is not on drugs. He is human. He is powerful. And like any great leader, he has moments of solitude. That should not be mistaken for weakness."
I should've felt grateful. I should've felt ashamed.
But all I felt was hollow.
She came home that night, slamming the front door harder than she probably meant to. I was on the balcony, shirtless, trying to breathe through the heat in my skin, the itch behind my spine that signalled my wolf wasn't sleeping anymore.
Eleanor stood behind me, quiet at first.
Then—"Devon. We need to talk."
I didn't answer.
She stepped closer, arms crossed. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
My back tensed. "Like what?"
"Don't play games," she snapped. "Are you using something? You've been different, Dev. Off. You barely sleep. You flinch when the kids touch you. You're sweating through suits. You're missing everything that matters and then pretending it's fine."
I turned to her slowly. "I'm not on anything."
She laughed—short, bitter. "Then what is it? Because whatever it is, it's killing you. And it's killing us."
I looked at her and saw pain. Real pain. And guilt twisted in my gut like poison.
"Fix it," she whispered. "Fix it before we don't have anything left to fight for."
She went to bed alone that night.
I stayed out there until the moon turned silver, breathing through clenched teeth, willing my wolf to shut up, shut up, shut up.
But later—much later—I dreamed.
No.
I burned.
I was back in that endless forest again, running, gasping. But this time I wasn't chasing. I was claiming.
Jimmie.
His skin, flushed and soft beneath me, his mouth open in a silent gasp as I sank my teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder, as he arched into me like he'd been waiting for it.
"You're mine," I growled.
"I'm yours," he whispered back.
And just as our mouths crashed together in a kiss that felt like it would shatter the stars, I woke up.
Soaked in sweat. My breathing was ragged. My body half-shifted. Claws carved into the hardwood. My cock hard, throbbing, soaked with precum.
I collapsed against the bedframe, shaking.
My wolf chuckled darkly in my head.
"You think you can stop me now?" he said.
"You waited too long, Devon. He's the mate. You know he is."
I clenched my jaw.
The bond was awakening.
And I was no longer sure I could survive it.