Devon James
The moment I stepped into my wife's office and saw Jimmie holding my jacket—my scent curling around him like a damn invitation—something primal inside me snapped.
Not in a way the world would see. Not yet. No. But deep, low, inside my bones, my wolf purred. Not just content—aroused. Drawn. Damn near pleased. And that made me madder than hell.
I took one step forward.
He didn't notice me at first. His eyes were half-lidded, lost in something I didn't want to name. Something I'd been trying to deny for weeks now. Obsession. Longing. Craving. The second he realised I was standing there, though, it was like someone poured ice water over him. He startled, almost dropped the jacket, eyes wide, face flushed. I knew that look. Embarrassment. Shame. Fear. Desire.
And that… that made me lose it.
I hated myself for liking what I saw. For liking him. For feeling my wolf pacing eagerly beneath my skin, tail swishing, eyes glowing in my mind like embers, eager to be close—closer to the boy standing like a guilty little pup in the middle of my office.
I should have told him it was okay. That it was just a damn jacket. I should have walked past him, taken the thing, and gone about my day like the composed man I was supposed to be. But I didn't.
Instead, I stepped in. Closer.
I didn't even know why. Maybe because it was easier to be cruel than to admit how badly I wanted to sink into whatever this was. Maybe because I was angry with myself for not being stronger.
I said nothing at first. Just stood there. Watching him squirm. His hands clenched tightly at his sides. Jacket half-forgotten, held like a shield across his chest.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice low. Too low. Almost a growl.
His lips parted. He tried to speak. Failed. Blinked hard, as if to hold back whatever words might betray him.
"—I-I was just—" he stammered.
"Touching things that aren't yours?" I cut in coldly. Sharper than intended. My words are like frostbite.
"I didn't mean to— It was left in the room, I just—" he tried again, but I stepped forward once more.
"And so you decided to bury your nose in it?" I spat, voice rising, teeth clenched. "Do I look like I invited that?"
His mouth opened, then closed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. And God help me, the scent of his anxiety hit me next, harp, nervous, real. My wolf whimpered, pulling at me.
Don't scare him.
He's ours.
He doesn't know.
Not yet.
But I didn't care. I buried that voice, shoved it deeper.
"You've been around my wife too long to forget your place, Jimmie," I said, deliberately formal now. "And I don't give a damn how innocent your excuses are—stay out of my things. Do I make myself clear?"
He looked down.
The jacket slipped from his hands and hit the floor like a dead weight between us.
"Yes, Mr. James," he whispered. Quiet. Small.
I don't know what made me angrier—his voice, or the sickening stab in my chest when I saw him shrink like that. Because it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like breaking something precious.
"Dismissed," I said through gritted teeth, turning my back on him before I saw the look on his face again. Before I did something worse.
He left without a word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Except in my head—Franco's voice, ever calm, ever wiser than I wanted to admit.
The more you fight, the harder your wolf will push.
I braced my hands on the desk, my breath shallow. Glaring at the floor where the jacket had fallen. My scent still lingered in the air, and it was his now too—faint, like jasmine and citrus. And guilt.
It's not out of control, I told myself.
I can still fight this.
I had to.
Because if I let go—if I gave in, even once—I wouldn't come back. And neither would my wolf.
But even that lie was starting to slip.
The pounding in my skull didn't stop. My wolf was pacing like a caged beast, restless and snarling, but not angry—not at him. Never at him. Angry at me. For pushing him away. For turning away from what he knew was ours. Our second chance. Our salvation.
And suddenly I was back there, years ago. Bloodied. Half-dead. On that cold mountain floor, gasping through a collapsed lung while my wolf whimpered inside me, fading.
That was the night I thought I'd die. When I prayed for a way out, for one more chance to breathe, to live. Not for power. Not for Astria.
Just to not die alone.
And this… this boy?
Was that the chance?
I growled, shoving the thought aside. No.
I wasn't some love-sick beast in heat. I was the President of this damn country. And he was just—
I slammed my fist into the desk.
The wood cracked.
A sharp, splintered dent gouged deep into the rich cherry finish. Papers fluttered to the floor.
My knuckles bled, then healed almost instantly under the cuff of my suit.
Control, damn it.
My eyes flared in the polished glass of the window. Golden. Bright. Inhuman.
I closed them.
Breath heavy.
He doesn't even know.
And he can't ever find out.
***
JIMMIE'S
I'd never felt so damn low in my life.
Not even when Marcus Peterson called me "a filthy little fairy" in front of the whole class during sophomore year. And he made sure everyone laughed—made sure I went home with spit in my locker and bruises on my ribs.
But this? This was worse.
Because this came from someone, I—God, I can't even say it.
It came from him.
Devon James. President of Astria. My boss's husband. And the man who, for some messed-up reason, I couldn't stop crushing on like some starstruck teenager.
I still felt the sting of his words. The ice in his tone. The way he looked at me was like I'd done something wrong just by existing in his space.
It was just a jacket.
A jacket.
But the way he'd spoken to me—as if I'd violated something sacred—left me feeling stripped. Like he'd reached inside and ripped something out of me, something I hadn't even realised was that soft until he bruised it.
I'd barely made it out of his office before the tears stung behind my eyes.
But I didn't let them fall. Not at work. Not here.
By the time I reached the lobby, Eleanor was already being ushered out, surrounded by staff and protocol.
She spotted me immediately.
"Jimmie," she called, her voice smooth as always. Confident. Poised. She could hold a room like she held a wine glass—without ever spilling a drop. "Were you able to get the final files I asked for? The charity ball ones?"
I nodded. Couldn't trust my voice.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not in suspicion—she never pushed too far—but she wasn't blind either. "Good," she said with a brief smile. "We'll go through them on the way home. Hop in."
I slid into the backseat beside her, forcing myself to refocus. To breathe. To be the Jimmie Portland I was hired to be. Not the one still feeling the phantom weight of Devon's stare burning into his skin.
The ride was silent for the most part, except for the rustle of papers and the low hum of Eleanor's voice as we skimmed through the drafts. I tried to respond when needed, my answers clipped but competent. She didn't press. She never did when she sensed I needed space.
But I should've known—Eleanor never really let anything slide.
When we pulled into the presidential residence, I unbuckled my seatbelt a little too fast. "Thank you for today, ma'am. I'll just head—"
"Jimmie," she cut in gently, "there's one more part of the file I want to go over."
I blinked.
"It's short," she added, then smiled. "Come on. We'll do it over dinner. Casual."
I didn't want to. Every bone in my body screamed for distance. I needed to breathe in air that didn't smell like Devon. But who was I to say no?
"Sure," I said, my voice light, almost convincing.
Dinner was simple, elegant—nothing too presidential. Roast chicken, grilled vegetables, warm bread that smelled like a memory. We sat across from each other in one of the smaller dining rooms. Less formality, more warmth.
Eleanor skimmed the last page. "So this part here—" she tapped her pen—"it's the sponsorship layout. I want to make sure the board understands who's committed and who's bluffing."
I nodded. "I can arrange a sit-down with the donors we're unsure about. Maybe push for confirmations."
"Good," she said, smiling at me over her glass. "That's what I like about you, Jimmie. You think ten steps ahead."
I tried to smile back.
Then the air shifted.
A door opened behind us.
I didn't have to look.
I felt him.
Devon walked into the room before he did. My breath caught before I even registered why. I kept my eyes glued to the paper in front of me, but I could feel the scowl he wore like cologne. Sharp. Bitter. Poisonous.
He sat across the table from me. Not directly. But close enough.
I didn't dare look up. Not fully.
But I felt him. Watching me.
And as much as I hated myself for it, I liked it.
God help me, I liked the way his gaze lingered. Heavy. Hot. Like it wasn't just anger this time. Like he didn't know whether to scold me again or pull me across the damn table.
I was sweating.
I wasn't even eating, and I felt full of tension. Of silence.
I reached for the water, nearly knocking over my glass.
"Are you okay?" Eleanor asked casually.
"Yeah—yes. Just… thirsty."
Devon's eyes stayed on me. I knew because I finally looked up, and he didn't pretend to look away. Not fast enough.
There was something there.
Something feral. Something afraid.
And I didn't know which of us it belonged to.
Moments passed. Minutes. The meal was nearly done when he pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. "Excuse me," he muttered, his voice tight.
I barely breathed again until I heard the door shut behind him.
My chest ached.
I needed a moment. A reset. Something.
So I stood too. "Restroom," I said quickly, offering Eleanor a quick smile.
She didn't question it. Thank God.
The hallway was quiet. The door to the guest restroom was slightly ajar.
And that's when I heard it.
Heavy breaths.
Ragged. Controlled… but barely.
I pushed the door open softly.
And froze.
Devon stood hunched over the sink, white-knuckled grip bracing the marble counter like it was the only thing anchoring him. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. His eyes—
They weren't the usual stormy brown.
They were golden.
Faintly glowing. Like embers in the dark.
I didn't mean to gasp.
But I did.
And when he heard it, his head snapped toward me, eyes still lit like fire.
My heart stopped.
"What are you—" he growled, voice low, hoarse, inhuman.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't move.
Because nothing in the world had prepared me for this