Jimmie's
The blindfold came off so fast I almost forgot how to blink.
For a few seconds, I squinted, disoriented as the dim twilight crept into the room through a narrow, cracked window, barely illuminating the space I was dumped in. A flickering bulb overhead sputtered like it had a vendetta against stability—on, off, a buzz, then dim. Honestly, it was less of a lightbulb and more like a nervous breakdown on a wire.
My hands were still tied tightly in front of me, itching, raw, and numb at the same time. The rope was too tight. My wrists were screaming, and I was ninety-nine per cent sure that if I lived through this, I'd develop some dramatic fear of twine. Maybe even yarn. No one warned me that kidnapping came with a whole trauma package and potential knit-phobia.
The room—I say "room" loosely—was a glorified storage closet that had given up on life. The walls were concrete, but cracked and damp, as if the building was quietly weeping alongside me. A mouldy pipe dripped steadily from the corner, making me want to either scream or sue for water damage.
"I swear to God, if I die in here surrounded by mold and piss fumes, someone's gonna need to summon me back just so I can slap the architect."
My voice echoed slightly, shaky but loud enough to feel human again. I'm still here. Still alive. Somehow.
I could hear voices outside. Low conversation. Laughter. And the unmistakable sound of a gun being loaded.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
I dragged myself to my knees, wobbling like a baby deer as I fought to stay upright. My legs weren't bound, thank God, but they were stiff from hours—maybe longer—of sitting on cold concrete.
Okay, Jimmie. Think. Use that overactive imagination for something other than spiralling.
My eyes locked on the small, grimy window near the ceiling. Too small to escape through, but maybe—
I staggered toward it and stood on a rusted oil drum to peek through.
Outside, the world was dark. The building looked like some run-down auto shop in the middle of nowhere. Just trees. Silence. And a whole lot of nowhere.
But then—I heard it before I saw it.
A black van.
Parked dead centre of the lot. Motionless.
"Wait. Wait, wait—oh my God, is that them? Is that the rescue team? Just one van?! Where the hell are the helicopters?! The dramatic floodlights?! The Michael Bay soundtrack?"
I leaned closer, heart thudding. But no one got out. No SWAT team kicked open the doors in slow motion.
Stillness.
And then, movement.
Six of the men outside—my delightful captors, all armed and all very much not model citizens—started slowly approaching the van. Like they were wary. Guns up, lips tight, circling.
I held my breath.
That van wasn't right. Something about it was wrong. Too still. Too quiet.
And then—
All hell broke loose.
The doors of the van exploded outward. Not just opened—launched.
A low snarl ripped through the air like thunder crawling on gravel. And then—
He emerged.
But it wasn't Devon. Not like I knew him.
This thing—this being—was twice his size. A monstrous, half-shifted form of muscle, claws, and rage. Golden eyes glowing like burning suns. Fangs dripping, hands half-paws, feet half-wolf. His veins pulsed with energy, his shoulders trembling with the kind of tension you only feel right before the world ends.
The kidnappers didn't stand a chance.
Devon—it—launched forward with such brutal speed that one man's gun shattered against the concrete before he could even raise it. There was a scream. A thud. A crunch I will never forget.
He tore through them. Tore.
One by one—like paper dolls caught in a storm of teeth and vengeance. Blood sprayed across the gravel lot like red paint on a canvas no one asked for. Screams echoed. Weapons clattered. And that growl—deep, guttural, monstrous—shook the windows and rattled my bones.
I was frozen.
This wasn't a man.
This was a beast.
And then, his eyes found me.
Those glowing golden eyes pierced through the shadows, through the blood, through every illusion I ever had of who Devon James was.
He stood there, chest heaving, blood staining his claws, his shirt in tatters and barely clinging to his monstrous form.
He looked straight at me.
And said one word.
"Mine."
I gasped. Staggered back. The oil drum toppled beneath me, and I hit the ground hard, scrambling like a cornered animal.
My body crashed hard to the ground—wind knocked clean out of my lungs as I hit the concrete. I scrambled backwards, frantic, nails scraping against the cold floor as my heart tried to punch a hole through my ribs.
The window.
What I just saw.
That thing.
Was that Devon?
No. No, no no no…
My eyes flew to the door of the room I was trapped in, the single decaying plank of wood between me and—that. My chest heaved as I watched the knob shake violently. Dust fell from the ceiling. The sound of splintering wood echoed like a shotgun blast.
And then the door—
BOOM.
It exploded inward off its hinges, crashing into the opposite wall like a meteor.
And he was there.
He was coming for me.
"No—NO! Stay away from me!" I screamed, voice breaking apart.
The wolf-man—Devon, or whatever was left of him—stood bloody in the doorway, shoulders heaving, claws dripping. His shirt hung in tatters, barely concealing the trembling, raw power just beneath his skin. Golden eyes locked on me, blazing. Consuming.
I kicked myself into the farthest corner of the room, legs scrambling uselessly against the floor.
"You're a monster!" I cried, my voice not even my own. "Get away from me!"
Something broke in his face.
Not physically—no. But emotionally. Deeply. Like I'd ripped something straight out of his chest with my words.
His breath hitched.
He didn't step forward. Didn't lunge. Didn't snarl like I thought he would.
Instead, he staggered back.
His eyes dimmed.
His body trembled.
Then, Franco burst into the frame like he'd been chasing a grenade. "Devon!" he called, trying to intercept, to catch him before—
Devon shoved him off.
"Don't," he rasped, voice deeper, cracked. "Don't touch me."
His form rippled. The monstrous edge faded, then flickered back, like a faulty engine refusing to die. His face contorted—shame, rage, heartbreak—and then he looked at me one last time.
I'll never forget the way he looked at me.
Like I'd stabbed him in the soul.
Like I was the one thing anchoring him to this world—and I'd just cut the rope.
Franco reached for him again, but this time, more gently. Devon didn't resist. Just let himself be led away—silent, shattered.
At the doorway, Devon paused.
His back is to me. His voice was low.
A whisper.
"I broke everything."
The door was left open behind them.
And I crumpled.
Fully. Completely.
The sobs came out of me like I'd been holding them in since birth—violent, loud, uncontrollable. I curled in on myself, gasping between the cries, heart thudding like it was trying to escape the mess of my body.
Devon James wasn't just the President of Astria.
He was something else.
Something terrifying.
And somehow…
Something mine.