Devon POV
I'd been hiding again.
The lights were off in the study — save for the low amber flicker of the fireplace, burning wood I didn't even remember asking to be lit. Papers lay scattered across my desk, documents I wasn't reading, speeches I wasn't writing, responsibilities I was consciously ignoring. The walls were tall and heavy, lined with books I never touched anymore, and the ceiling above me felt like it pressed lower every day.
My wolf paced beneath my skin, not in frustration but desperation.
It was getting harder to breathe.
Jimmie, the only person my wolf craves but can't have. The very reason for my dilemma.
But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
BANG.
The door—my study door—crashed off its hinges, the wood snapping with a brutal crack that echoed through the manor like a gunshot. I rose to my feet instantly, chair screeching across the floor, heart pounding in my throat.
"What the hell?!" I growled.
Dust clouded the air from the splintered frame. A workman — one of ours — stood briefly in the doorway, looking sheepish, waiting for further instruction. But before I could say a word, her voice cut through the chaos like a blade:
"Leave us."
Eleanor.
My wife. My queen. The First Lady of Astria.
She stepped forward with the grace of a blade drawn from its sheath — sharp, cold, beautiful, and deadly. The man obeyed instantly, disappearing down the hall without a glance back, leaving the wreckage of my barricade behind him.
My wolf didn't snarl. Strangely, it… sighed, like something in me had just been cracked open and let loose.
He was grateful.
She crossed the room without flinching, without acknowledging the mess or the way my stare burned into her. She made her way to the corner wine cabinet, placing a wooden box on the table and went on to pluck the crystal decanter off the shelf, and poured herself a glass. Not a sip — no.
She downed it in one long, unbothered gulp.
That's when I knew something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
I knew that look. Eleanor was a slow actor. Precise. Like a black mamba on the hunt. But when she struck, it was always fatal.
Seven years ago, Eleanor's fury had scorched me when I missed Nathaniel's basketball game. I had promised to be there, to support our son, especially since Eleanor was out of the country. But I failed them both. Nathaniel stood alone on that court, and Eleanor made sure I felt every ounce of the disappointment and pain our son endured.
But this... this was different. Her anger now was not just a flame—it was an inferno, fueled by something deeper, something unspoken.
And now she stood before me, glass in hand, eyes levelled with mine like a gun trained between the eyes.
"What the hell are you doing, Eleanor?" I snapped, cold, hard, masking the ripple of unease that crawled down my spine.
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"Being the bigger person," she said evenly, her voice like polished steel. "Since you've forgotten how."
I narrowed my eyes. "Excuse me?"
She began to pace. Slowly. Gracefully. Like she owned this room. Like I was the guest. The trespasser.
"I wondered," she murmured, fingers trailing along the edge of the desk. "Why does my husband, the man I built a life and legacy with, suddenly disappear into himself? Avoids his family. Looks at me like I'm made of glass. Like I'm in his way."
I opened my mouth to interject — "Eleanor, I—"
"I'm not done." Sharp. Deadly.
She circled me, slow, calculating, like she was inspecting a broken machine. "Then I started thinking... maybe there's someone else."
I flinched.
It was almost imperceptible — but she saw it. Of course she did.
She stopped directly in front of me now. Her eyes boring into mine. And then came the question — quiet but lethal:
"Is there someone else, Devon?"
For the briefest moment, the world spun.
My wolf clawed at my chest. Tell her, he begged. Let it out. End this prison.
But what came out was broken, weak, desperate:
"Why would you think that, Ele-belle?" My voice cracked at the nickname, hoping to soften the moment.
She scoffed. Her lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You tell me."
I said nothing. What could I say? That the bond already been chosen by someone else? That I dreamed of another's scent and touch? That the heat I used to feel for her had turned cold, unnatural — like I was wearing clothes that didn't belong to me?
She stepped closer now.
"You don't touch me."
"You flinch from the kids."
"You can't even look me in the eye anymore, Devon."
Her voice rose now, trembling with something more dangerous than rage: truth.
"You're building walls. And you think I don't see it. But I do. I see everything."
She swallowed, fists clenched at her sides.
Or… She trailed off, as if fearing I would acknowledge the truth. This truth.
"Are you really on something?" she asked softly.
"Is that what this is? Drugs? Because if you lie to me again, I swear to God—"
"No!" I roared, finally. "No, Eleanor, I'm not okay! I haven't been okay in a long time! But I'm not on anything. I just… I just need more time. Please."
She rolled her eyes.
"You don't have time!" she snapped, voice slicing like ice.
"You're the President of Astria, for God's sake! A father! A husband! You don't get to break down—not like this. Not for this long."
I clenched my fists, back rigid. I turned away, trying to compose myself.
"I thought I was your confidant," she continued. "I thought you trusted me with your secrets."
"What secrets?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She moved to the wine table. Picked up the wooden box she'd brought with her and opened it without flourish. Then she threw it across the room. It landed at my feet, the lid snapping off, the contents spilling across the floor with a horrifying clatter.
Syringes.
Silver sulfate.
Restraint hooks.
Bandages soaked in dried blood.
No. No.
My stomach dropped.
My wolf howled inside my chest — not in pain, but in some dark, twisted relief.
She knows.
"Not keeping secrets, huh?" she said coldly. "Then explain this. Darling."
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't move.
The truth was clawing its way up my throat, but I knew — if it came out, everything would fall.
She stepped closer now, quiet again. Almost… eerily calm.
"I love you," she said.
"Still do. But I will not let you destroy me. Or our children. Either get a grip and fix this before it gets out of hand, or lose us. Forever."
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked toward the door — what was left of it.
Franco was already standing by the entrance. His eyes scanned the room — the broken wood, the spilt contents, the silence between us. "What the hell happened here?"
Eleanor barely spared him a glance as she passed by, lifting her chin like the perfect First Lady walking off a public stage.
"Handle him," she said quietly, and vanished into the corridor.
I stood there, staring at the wreckage at my feet.
Franco turned to me, voice low.
"Devon?"
I finally looked at him. Chest heaving. Hands trembling.
All I could whisper was:
"She knows."