Jimmie Pov
Four weeks.
That's how long it's been since I've seen Devon properly. Four long weeks of emotional torture—of fighting feelings that had no business existing in the first place. Four weeks of avoiding him, dodging glances that never came, pretending not to care when he stopped showing up to meetings. When his absence began to scream louder than his presence ever did.
The truth?
Avoiding him had become easier. Mostly because he made it easy. He hadn't been in the presidential offices much—barely even in the residence. And if he was, he stayed hidden behind closed doors like a ghost too tired to haunt.
Eleanor kept giving vague excuses.
"He's working remotely today."
"He's with the strategist team."
"He's resting."
I nodded every time she spoke, lips pressed, trying not to betray the crack forming beneath the surface of my composure. Because no matter how much I told myself not to care... I cared. Damn it, I did.
And the tabloids weren't helping. They've been cruel lately. Merciless.
They threw words like "unfit," "unstable," and "substance abuse" like darts to a board, hoping one would stick. One interview even called him a chemical time bomb in a suit. Who says things like that? I kept telling myself not to read them. But every time I passed a newsstand or heard staff whispering behind closed doors, it gnawed at me.
What if… what if they were right?
What if something was wrong with Devon?
He hadn't been himself.
And no one could convince me otherwise. I've seen him exhausted, yes. Seen him annoyed, cornered by protocol. But these past weeks? He looked lost. Haunted even. Like something inside him was breaking. And no one knew how to stop it.
Not even him.
God help me—I wanted to help. I wanted to bang on his damn door and scream at him to talk to me. To tell me what the hell was going on. Why did he touch me like that in the hallway, only to vanish into smoke and shadows?
But instead, I kept my distance.
For my sanity. For his marriage. For everything I was supposed to be.
Even if the pull hadn't lessened. If anything, it had gotten worse. Stronger. Like I was tethered to something I couldn't see—but could feel.
The only thing keeping me grounded was work. That damn job, that structured madness that gave me something to hide inside. And lately, it's been demanding.
With Devon's public absence, Eleanor had stepped up. A force of nature, really—holding things together like the spine of the administration itself. She barely slept, barely paused. And this morning, she needed me to run an important errand in her place.
"Somewhere quiet," she'd said. "Something discreet. We can't have the press poking their noses in this one."
As I was preparing to leave, Eleanor caught my hand. Softly. Too softly. Her touch lingered, and I looked up to find her watching me with tired but sincere eyes.
"Jimmie," she whispered, "I just want to say thank you. For being... steady. For standing by us. You've been more help than you know these past few weeks. Truly."
God. That burned.
Because she didn't know.
Didn't know the things I'd felt. The thoughts that plagued me at night. The betrayal curled somewhere in my gut like poison.
I forced a smile. "I'm just doing my job, Eleanor. That's all."
She squeezed my hand, then let go.
The trip was supposed to be simple. In and out. No press. No drama.
I told the security team to tone it down—just a single escort vehicle. I didn't want to make noise. I needed peace.
But peace never came.
It started with the tires screeching.
Then the impact. Loud. Jarring. Our car flipped sideways before I could register what was happening. My head slammed into the glass—my ears rang as doors were yanked open, as shouting erupted outside.
Gunfire.
"Get him!"
Rough hands. My arms were wrenched behind me. A black hood was shoved over my head. My voice caught in my throat—I screamed, I think. Kicked. Fought.
They didn't care.
They dragged me, shoved me into a smaller vehicle. Silence followed. Thick. Drowning. I don't know how long we drove. Time lost all meaning.
When they finally stopped, I was thrown into a cold, musty room. The concrete was damp. The air smelled like mildew and gasoline. Chains rattled nearby—I wasn't sure if they were meant for me or just leftovers from some horror show.
They didn't speak to me.
No demands.
No explanation.
Why me?
Why me?
I sat there, back pressed to the wall, my wrists throbbing from the zip ties. My breaths shallow. I tried not to cry. Not yet.
Then it hit me.
They think I'm important.
More than just a staff member. More than a glorified assistant.
My heart dropped as the pieces started to click.
"God," I whispered, shaking. "I've been kidnapped."
My voice bounced off the walls like an echo of disbelief.
I've been kidnapped.
And I don't even know why.
—
Devon's Pov
It was the scream.
Not a scream of pain. Not even fear.
But grief.
A scream so raw it scraped the walls, tore through the corridors, and sliced through me like a knife to the chest.
Eleanor.
My study door flew open before my mind caught up with my body. I was already sprinting through the halls, my bare feet silent on the polished marble, my pulse pounding louder than the thud of each footfall. Her voice still rang in my ears—hoarse, trembling, shattered.
I found them gathered near the residence's north corridor. A cluster of staff. Tight expressions. Pale faces.
But it was Eleanor who split my soul open.
She was in the centre of it all, her robe half slipping off her shoulders, her hair dishevelled, eyes wide with disbelief and drenched in tears. She looked... lost. Like the ground had been ripped from under her, and she hadn't stopped falling since.
Her gaze locked with mine, and before I could ask, she stumbled forward and collapsed into my arms.
I caught her. Of course I did.
"Eleanor?" I breathed, heart hammering against her trembling body. "What's wrong? What happened?"
I looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowing on Franco, my head of security. The grim set of his jaw told me everything before his words did.
"I just got off the phone with one of the escort team," he began slowly. "There's been an incident."
Something in me coiled. My muscles tightened.
"Incident?" My voice cracked.
Franco exhaled through his nose. "Jimmie. He was taken. Kidnapped on the way to an errand for Eleanor."
It felt like the world paused.
No, it snapped.
Something deep and primal tore loose inside me. Like chains breaking. Metal screaming.
I didn't just hear those words—I felt them. Felt them split through me like fire through parchment. My hands shook around Eleanor's shoulders. I could smell Jimmie's fear, even across the city—like smoke trailing toward me, calling me.
My mate.
No. No. No.
He can't be gone.
"He's just a civilian," Eleanor rasped against my chest. "Why would anyone take him?"
I looked at Franco, teeth clenched. "Do they want a ransom? Has anyone made contact?"
Franco shook his head. "Nothing yet. But—" he pulled out his tablet, flicked to a video feed, "—our team tracked the escort vehicle to a remote industrial area northeast. We've got a lead on their location."
Eleanor clutched me tighter. "Devon... we have to do something. We can't just sit here—"
I held her close, even as I was already drifting from her. My heart was with her, yes—but my soul, my instincts, my wolf... they were already hunting.
"We'll bring him back," I said softly, though it was more for me than her. "I swear it. I'll bring him home."
I turned to one of the staff. "Get Eleanor to the safe wing. Now."
"Where are you going?" she asked, eyes red-rimmed, voice trembling.
I inhaled sharply. "To fix this."
Franco followed close behind as we reached the elevator leading to the underground transport bay. But I could feel the shift coming. It wasn't a choice anymore. My control—the control I'd fought so hard for—was slipping.
The air thickened.
My bones ached.
Halfway to the elevator, I hunched forward, teeth gritting, the heat crawling beneath my skin.
"Devon," Franco warned, reaching out. "Stop. You're—"
But it was too late.
My eyes flared gold. Claws punched through skin. My jaw cracked mid-snarl. The half-shift gripped me like lightning under my skin, and I let it. I welcomed it.
They touched my mate.
They took my mate.
"Devon, don't—!"
I turned, half-shifted, voice layered with the growl of the beast inside.
"They touched my mate."
Franco froze. Eyes wide. Like I'd just ripped the foundation of everything he knew about me.
"What...?" he whispered. "Mate?"
I stepped toward him, pupils slitted, my aura flaring so violently the elevator lights flickered.
"I said—" I growled, "They touched my mate."
Franco staggered back a step.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, barely breathing. "That's why you've been... everything... the pull, the silence... You—?"
"I have to get him back," I snapped. "I need to."
Franco didn't speak. Not at first. He was still reeling, still trying to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about me. But I saw it—the shift in his stance. The understanding that replaced his shock.
And the loyalty that never wavered.
Then, I turned, the elevator doors starting to close.
"Are you coming?" I asked, holding the door open with my foot, eyes blazing, barely clinging to my humanity.
Franco stared at me a moment longer.
Then, slowly, he stepped in beside me, silent. Ready.
The doors slid shut behind us.
And war was coming.