Eleanor James
This is crazy.
No—this is insane.
It all happened so fast that my mind couldn't keep up. One minute he was talking—my husband, my partner, the damn President of Astria—standing at that podium with his usual fierce composure, and the next?
He crumpled.
Collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
The scream that tore from my throat wasn't planned. It wasn't First Lady Eleanor speaking. It was just me, Eleanor. The woman who loved him. The woman who didn't know how to live if Devon James wasn't beside her.
Now I'm in the back of a moving ambulance, sirens blaring so loud it sounds like grief itself. I sit hunched forward, both of my hands in mine—heavy, limp, cold. No pulse. No strength. Not even a twitch of resistance.
"Come back to me," I whisper, voice trembling. My lips brush his knuckles, as if that might wake something in him. "Devon, please…"
His face is too pale.
His lips have lost their colour.
He looks like something's left him—something vital.
Dead?
No.
No, he can't be.
I glance up at the paramedic riding with us, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "How is he?"
The young man doesn't look up. His hands are steady as he adjusts the oxygen mask strapped to Devon's face. BP is unstable. Heart rate is dropping. We need to get him on monitors ASAP. But..."
"But?" I echo, because the silence after that word is worse than any confirmation.
The medic glances at me now, his mouth thin. "He's fading, ma'am."
Fading.
No. Not Devon. Not him.
I tighten my grip on his hand. "Stay with me. Do you hear me? You stay with me, Devon James."
The vehicle jerks as we stop. The back doors swing open, and the world explodes into motion.
Hospital staff rush forward—scrubs and latex, and stretchers. The flashing red of emergency lights. Voices barking orders. Hands pulling him away from me.
"Blood pressure is crashing—get the crash cart ready!"
"Page Dr. Maddox! Move!"
I chase them into the hospital as far as they'll let me. My heels clack on the white marble floors, but I don't even feel them. I'm numb. People are yelling, guards are swarming, and Franco—dear, fierce Franco—is right at my heel, his presence solid as steel.
They wheel Devon through the double doors, and I'm forced to stop. A nurse blocks me gently with an apologetic but firm expression. "You can't go in there, ma'am. He's going straight into the emergency unit. We need space."
Franco steps forward, jaw clenched. "I'm going in with him."
The nurse's brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, sir. That's not allowed."
Franco's tone drops. "That's not a request."
I put a hand on his arm, trying to de-escalate. "Franco... It's medical protocol. Let them—"
"No." He turns to me sharply. "You don't understand. I need to be in there with him."
The way he says it... It's not forceful. Not political. There's something else. Fear.
But not the kind of fear I'm used to seeing on Franco's face. This isn't a worry for the President.
This is something else. Something deeper.
My eyes narrow. "Why, Franco?"
He doesn't answer. But I see it in his face—he's hiding something. Something he's terrified of.
The lead doctor sighs, clearly tired of the back-and-forth. "One person. That's all we can allow. He'll have to suit up."
Franco gives a sharp nod.
Moments later, he's gone, being ushered away by a nurse, shrugging into a sterile gown. The doors swing shut behind him, sealing him in that white-walled unit where my husband is fighting for his life.
And I'm left... outside.
Alone.
I move to a bench, collapsing onto the cold plastic like my knees have finally given out. My breath comes in shallow gasps. The sterile smell of antiseptic fills my lungs.
And then the guilt crashes over me like a wave.
What if this is my fault?
The thought pierces me like a knife.
I was the one who insisted. I told him to stop taking the injections. The experimental serum that his body had started to depend on. I was afraid—afraid of what it was doing to him, to his mind, to us. So I made him promise me. Threatened him, "No more. If you love me, stop." And like the fool he is, he did.
God, what if I killed him?
I bend forward, clutching my stomach, my elbows braced on my knees as sobs break from my throat. It's not graceful or pretty. This is ugly crying. This is the kind of pain that rots you from the inside.
I didn't know this would happen.
I didn't know...
"Please don't die," I whisper into my palms. "Devon... please. I can't do this without you. I can't..."
I look up through blurry eyes at the glowing red EMERGENCY UNIT sign above the door and feel something shift deep in my gut. A dread I can't name.
I wipe my face. My makeup's ruined. I don't care. Not now.
Behind those doors, my husband is fighting a battle I can't even begin to understand.
And I?
I might have already lost.
—
Franco Pov
The hum of fluorescent lights above me felt louder than it should've. Or maybe it was the silence. The terrifying silence after the storm.
I stood in the corner of the emergency room, pressed against the sterile white walls like I didn't belong here. Like my presence was some kind of mistake. But I did belong here—if not for them, for him. Devon.
My President.
His secret.
My best damn friend.
He lay on the surgical bed, shirt torn open, electrodes stuck to his pale chest, and tubes snaking into his arms. A blur of doctors moved around him—rushed, methodical, but increasingly frantic. Their voices were calm, but only on the surface. Underneath, panic was tightening its grip.
"Charging to 200 joules."
"Clear."
A dull, mechanical thump. Devon's body jolted. His arms twitched. His back arched slightly.
Then stillness.
No response.
"Charging to 300."
"Clear."
Another jolt.
Another breathless pause.
Still nothing.
It wasn't the hospital. No, the hospital was fine—top-tier, state-of-the-art. Created for people like Devon. Powerful. Influential. Untouchable.
This wasn't about trust in the system.
I hadn't insisted on being in this room because I didn't trust the doctors.
I insisted because of the wolf.
The secret Devon kept from the world.
From Eleanor.
From the country.
And now? That wolf was silent.
Too silent.
It was like… something had died inside him. Or was dying. The man I'd watched survive assassination attempts, political betrayals, physical torment, was now lying there like a pale echo of himself—his golden eyes closed, his pulse undetectable, his skin too cold for someone still considered among the living.
Devon James was a monster of myth and war. But right now… he looked so human. And so broken.
They tried again.
Another shock. Another flash of movement.
Still nothing.
My heart clenched. I could feel it twisting in my chest, like someone had shoved a fist inside and squeezed. I wasn't just his head of security. That's what the papers called me. What Eleanor probably believed. But Devon? He was more to me than an assignment.
He was the man who saved me.
Years ago, I'd been a marked man. A body with a bounty. The mafia had my name on a list, and I was bleeding through my shirt, stumbling down a cobbled street after escaping a shootout. That night, I thought I'd die.
And then I ran into him.
He was leaving a high-end restaurant, shaking hands with a client— a business meeting supposedly. I must've hit him while crossing the road, shoulder to shoulder. I remember apologising quickly, blood dripping from my temple, panic in my eyes, and all I could do was run.
But he followed me.
Why, I never understood.
He didn't have to. But he did. And when those men caught up with me in the lonely dark alley, laughing like hyenas, guns drawn… it was his voice that stopped them.
"Leave him."
The men laughed. They thought he was alone. Weak.
They were wrong.
Devon didn't even break a sweat. One second he was in front of me, the next—five bodies lay sprawled in the alley, throats torn, bones shattered. His eyes were glowing gold. A wildness in him that made my legs tremble.
I was terrified. He wasn't human.
But he didn't hurt me. He just looked at me with those strange, ancient golden eyes and said, "Don't be afraid. I'm not here to harm you."
And that was the beginning.
He paid off my debt. Protected my family. Gave me a life.
So I swore mine to him.
And now I was watching that man—my friend—slip away. Nothing in my life had ever hurt quite like this.
Then the machine beeped. Once.
Then again.
Then it stopped.
Flatline.
My stomach dropped.
The lead doctor backed away, sweat coating his brow, eyes cast down. The rest of the team stepped back, too. No one said it, but we all knew.
They were giving up.
I stepped closer. Slowly. Not daring to believe what I was seeing.
Devon's body didn't move. No shudder. No breath. Just a stillness that felt wrong. Too unnatural for a creature like him.
No gold in his eyes.
No pulse in his chest.
No fire.
I looked at the monitor. The flat green line was the loudest thing I had ever seen.
I inhaled sharply. My throat ached.
He was gone.
Gone.
Unless…
Unless he wasn't.
Unless something deep inside him—something ancient and primal—was buried, clawing its way back, waiting to be called.
I didn't know what I was thinking.
But I knew what I had to do.
I backed away from the bed, pushing open the door, stepping out into the hallway with my heart pounding. My fingers reached for the emergency sat-phone tucked inside my suit pocket. One number. One man. The only contact Devon ever made me memorise in case of "a last resort."
I dialled it.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a voice answered—low, composed, yet somehow unsettling.
"Hello."
I swallowed, eyes still watching Devon through the transparent glass as the doctors began pulling off gloves, muttering quietly to themselves.
"He's gone," I said, voice shaking. "Devon James is gone."
There was silence on the other end.
Then the voice spoke again.
Cool. Calm. Chilling.
"Bring him to us."