Savage Heir by Jagger Cole
1
“You can’t actually be serious.”
My eyes slide from my hands, busy buttoning up the front of my raincoat, into the mirror where they meet Charlotte’s. I smile curiously.
“Of course I’m serious. All the sports programs here are way too competitive for me to have a prayer at getting into, and the math team doesn’t have its first meeting until halfway through the term.”
My roommate pales, shaking her head. “No, you need to find something else. Seriously. Look, I know this is all new to you, but I’m telling you—”
“Char, it’s just tutoring. I’ve done it a million times before.”
Okay, I’ve done it a million times before in public school, in North Carolina and then DC after we moved there. I’ve never done it at the single most exclusive, prestigious private preparatory school in the world.
But just the same… tutoring is tutoring, isn’t it? And apparently, even at the Oxford Hills Academy, which guides the world’s most elite, connected, and—let’s be real—rich students get into whatever higher education best suits their perfect pedigrees, there are still ones who need a leg up.
And tutoring looks amazing on pre-college resumes.
“Tenley…” Charlotte’s lips are thin, and the color has fully left her face as it shakes back and forth. “You can’t tutor him. You can’t go near him.”
My brow furrows as I turn with a smirk. “Charlotte, I helped with SAT prep in some of the most dangerous schools in DC.” I glance around at the stunningly gorgeous living area—complete with Tudor-style paned glass windows, curved, intricate ceiling beams, wood inlay shelves of books, and a fireplace that would fit right in at Hogwarts. “I mean, look where we are. I’m sure I’ll be—”
“They call him ‘The Wolf’ for a reason, Tenley,” she hisses quietly.
I swallow. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the nickname.
In the three days since I moved into the student housing with Charlotte, I’ve heard the moniker whispered like a curse, or maybe a prayer, throughout the common areas of campus.
Ilya Volkov: The Wolf of Oxford Hills.
I’ve looked him up online. I mean how do you not after a nickname like that. I’ve never even met him or seen him face-to-face. But one Google image search later and I fully understood why he’s the Wolf.
Because when that man looks into a camera lens, it’s like a predator ready to pounce on his prey.
Well, that and the fact that his last name is literally Russian for “wolf”, I guess. His last name is also as synonymous with organized crime in Russia as “Capone” would be in the states. In fact, his uncle is the Yuri Volkov, head of the notoriously brutal and cold-blooded Volkov Bratva family.
My face flushes as I think back to the face of Ilya spread across the search engine page. Dark hair, green eyes, and the chiseled good looks and bone structure of an aristocratic model. But the whole visage is washed in a brooding darkness that you can’t help but shiver at.
Just like I do, right now, even thinking of it. But I steel myself and shake that shiver off. Ilya Volkov might be “The Wolf.” He might—allegedly—be heir apparent to one of the most dangerous, powerful, and wealthy crime families in the world. He might, bewilderingly, be on academic probation after some issues last year.
But I won’t let any of that affect me or throw me off. Because all of this is part of The Plan.
Okay, so The Plan has been slightly edited by the media and consulting team surrounding my father’s anticipated political moves. But it’s still mostly The Plan I’ve had in my head since I was twelve.
Graduate valedictorian, then Columbia for undergrad where I will, of course, graduate with honors. After that, it’s right to Harvard Law, and interning at the renowned Welsley and Kane who will make me a Junior Associate. From there, I’ll make moves to the even more prestigious Lancer, Stein, and Ramirez firm back in DC, where I’ll make partner within two years. After a few years there, I’ll climb the ladder into a judgeship for the District of Columbia. And by the time I’m forty, I’ll make the push to the final goal: Supreme Court Justice Tenley Chambers—the youngest Justice in history.
Lofty? Perhaps. Impossible? Not with The Plan, which is why I have it.
In the last year, though, The Plan has changed. Sort of. It’s been “recolored,” as Jill, my father’s new PR chief, put it. Because The Plan now involves a lot more than me.
The Plan now involves my father possibly becoming the next Vice President of the United States.
Currently, my dad is the US Secretary of State. Which, I’m under zero illusions, is almost entirely why and how I’m at Oxford Hills. It’s the power and prestige he wields, not the money. We were never struggling when I was growing up. My dad did well as a Naval officer and lawyer with the military courts.
But there’s “doing well” for normal people, and then there’s “doing well” for the kind of people whose kids go to Oxford Hills.
And Oxford Hills is in a class entirely its own.
The students here are the upper echelon—the elite of the world’s elite. The sons and daughters of billionaire tycoons, oligarchs, and royalty—literal, real royalty. I’m from an upper-middle-class suburb and public school. The other students here are from actual castles, or houses with their own zip codes, and have never washed a single teaspoon.
But six months ago, my dad was approached by Senator George North. The New York Senator is highly speculated, by the entire political media spectrum, to be the next President of the United States. He’s already gotten a thumbs-up from the soon to be exiting current POTUS, and his team has picked my father to be his potential running mate when he announces.
Six months ago, life got very complicated. Suddenly, public school and the burbs wasn’t enough. Being a model student with the highest marks possible wasn’t enough. No, I needed “elite status.” I needed “pedigree.”
I needed “a social life.”
So, here I am: out of DC and across the ocean to the bucolic English countryside where Oxford Hills sits. Here, my image will be “perfected” by elite classes, elite friends, and an elite boyfriend.
My mouth tightens at the very thought of it.
Patrick North, Senator North’s son, is also at Oxford Hills. Though, he’s been here for the last three years, given that his father is a US Senator and billionaire investor. Granted, I’m not a political PR expert. But the idea of the soon-to-be-President’s son dating the soon-to-be-Vice-President’s daughter seems… gross to me. Jill and the PR team, however, thinks it’s a slam-dunk for the polls. Senator North agrees, and my dad seems to just be along for the wild ride.
So now I have a new school, a new country, and a new fake boyfriend to pose for the cameras with.
But at least the new roommate is all sorts of awesome. Charlotte’s like me. Which is to say, being here gives her imposter-syndrome to the max, too. Char’s been at Oxford Hills for a year already. But like me, she doesn’t really belong here.
A little over a year ago, Charlotte’s mother, a very regular, normal schoolteacher from a London suburb, married the King—the actual, real King—of the small country of Luxlordia. That makes Charlotte an actual, real princess. Or, to a “normal” person like me, it does. To other royalty, it makes her an imposter.
That’s basically how we became fast friends two months ago when we were notified we’d be roommates this term at Oxford Hills. A single phone call turned into almost nightly FaceTiming, and now we’re best friends. And all because of the joke that the only reason we’ve been put together as roommates is because we’re the “imposters.”
The faux princess and the presidential race prop.
“Tenley.”
Her voice snaps me out of my own head.
“You can’t—”
“Charlotte, I’ll be fine,” I smile. Even though inside, my stomach knots. My heart clenches along with my fingers into the palm of my hand. I’m trying to be brave. But I can’t help but feel like I’m about to walk right into the lion’s den.
Or The Wolf’s, as the case may be.
I glance outside through the elegant paned windows at the rain pouring down on the English countryside. I pull up the hood of my burgundy raincoat and turn back to the mirror. My blue eyes meet their reflection. I tuck an errant lock of red hair behind my ear, under the hood, and I take a breath.
Okay, I can do this. It’s all for The Plan. And Supreme Court Justice and Time Magazine Person of the Year Tenley Chambers is not afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.
I glance back at Charlotte, curled on the couch, and smile. “I’ll be back in an hour or so I guess.”
“Yeah, unless he eats you,” she mumbles with a worried frown. I roll my eyes, wave, and turn to head out the door into the rain.
Ilya Volkov is not going to eat me.
Student housing at Oxford Hills is quaint, but moneyed. There aren’t big buildings full of dorms with communal bathrooms or anything like at other private schools. Students are paired two to a “cottage”—whimsically beautiful Tudor-style houses arranged in quads with three others just like it, with a shared, gorgeously manicured and landscaped backyard area.
Each cottage has a downstairs kitchen—though there’s a Great Hall dining area that serves three meals and two teas a day—a study library and living room. Upstairs, there are two bedrooms with private bathrooms, and a common area between them.
Outside, I tighten my hood against the downpour and trudge across campus. The housing address for Ilya that the student services office gave me simply says “Lordship Manor.” I haven’t explored much of campus since I moved in three days ago. But an online map had it situated on the far side of the stables—yes, there are stables—and past the archery range. Yes, there’s an archery range.
My rain boots splash through puddles along the slate and cobblestone walkways that crisscross the grounds of Oxford Hills. There are only a few other people out in this weather, but they seem to ignore me even when I give a wave.
I’m quickly learning that the children of the world’s elite aren’t the friendliest bunch.
I pass the stables, smiling at the smell of hay and horses. The archery range is empty and gray in the downpour. I’ve got my head down to ward off the rain, so I don’t notice the wall and the gate until I’m almost smacking into it.
I startle and step back. I glance up, and my eyes widen.
Past the ivy-covered stone wall and ornate iron gate, is a stunning old home. It looks like it belongs on the grounds of Versailles or something—a huge, beautiful and yet imposing stone manor, half-covered in ivy. Black-iron windows dot the facade, and the front door looks like it would withstand a siege from a rival kingdom.
I’m about to dig my phone out and figure out how close I am to Ilya’s cottage when my eyes suddenly snap to the words carved into the stone wall next to the gate. My mouth falls open in shock when I read “Lordship Manor.”
What. The. Fuck.
Thisis where Ilya Volkov lives? It’s no cottage. It’s a fucking castle. I shake my head in disbelief. But, this is it, alright. And palace or not, the student I’m supposed to tutor in order to bulk up my resume is in there.
This will be fine.
Unless he eats you.
I tremble as I push the gate open and step through. I fast-walk up the stone walkway to the enormous, black iron and old-wood door. There’s no doorbell.
I frown. What the hell am I supposed to do, use a battering ram? Have my squire call up to the Lord of the realm?
I take a breath, haul my fist back, and pound. Then I pound again, and again. Finally, I hear the sound of a lock being drawn back. The door cracks and then swings open. I blink in surprise.
The girl is not who I expected. She’s… stunning. Tall, leggy, blonde, and absolutely gorgeous. And here I am standing in the pouring rain in a baggy red raincoat, hair stuck to my face, no makeup, looking like a shipwreck survivor.
The wrinkled-nose look of disdain she gives me seems to back that up.
“Who are you?” She sneers in a haughty, posh British accent. Her manicured brow arches with distaste.
“I—I’m the…”
I suddenly realize there’s a party going on behind her. The inside of the manor is even more gorgeous than the outside. And it’s full of students drinking, dancing, making out, smoking cigarettes—and something else by the smell of it—and roaring with laughter. Music thuds.
“Were you invited?” She sneers.
I frown. “No, I—I mean, I’m the—”
She suddenly smiles widely. “Oh! Oh, no, honey,” her smile thins. “We won’t need the maid service until tomorrow. And when you do come back, do make sure you come through the service entrance at the back, yeah?”
Her cold eyes pierce me as her lips thin. “Kay, bye…”
She starts to shut the door in my face. But my rain boot juts out to stop her. She looks at me like I’ve just peed on the royal jewels.
“Are you fucking—”
“I’m actually the tutor?” I smile weakly. Then I take a breath and compose myself. I stand a little taller. “I’m the tutor. I’m here for Ilya.”
She stares at me. But slowly, her lips curl in amusement.
“Ilya?” She says with a smirk.
“Uh, yes. Does he live here?”
She grins widely. “You’re sure you’re looking for Ilya. Ilya Volkov.”
Good grief.
“I’m sure,” I say tightly. “Can I—”
“Stay here, I’ll get him.” She starts to turn. But then she glances back at me and shakes her head. “You’re sure about this?”
“Pardon me?”
She chuckles as her eyes slide up and down over me, like she’s sizing me up. Her lips smirk.
“Oh, hon,” she shakes her head and gives me a faux-sympathetic look. “Just remember, you had the chance to run, and didn’t.”
She shuts the door. I stand there in the pouring rain, blinking and trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
The minutes tick by. After about five of them, I realize I’m being pranked, or hazed or something. Yeah, screw this. I can tutor anyone. But I don’t need to deal with this mean-girl shit.
As I start to turn to head back home, though, I hear the door creak. I roll my eyes, ready to give miss Ice Queen the finger. Slowly, I turn with the sneer on my lip as the door swings open.
And then my heart stops beating for a second.
Suddenly, I’m face-to-face with The Wolf himself.
The dark hair, the piercing green eyes. The dark, menacing look on his perfectly chiseled face. My eyes drop, and I blush.
He’s also shirtless. Shirtless, and… built. And tattooed to hell and back. My face burns as my eyes drink in the broad, muscled shoulders, the lines of his photoshop-perfect chest and abs, and the grooves of his hips diving into the waist of his black jeans.
I slowly drag my eyes up to his stern but slightly amused face. And I tremble.
Ilya Volkov is stunning. And terrifying. And gorgeous. And dangerous looking. His hair is both tussled and perfect. Those almost supernatural green eyes pierce into my very soul. There’s a smug smirk on his perfect lips, and what looks and smells like a spliff dangling from them.
He leans against the doorframe holding a crystal tumbler with what looks like whiskey or scotch in it. His cold, amused gaze sweeps over me.
I shiver under it.
“Well?” He growls—growls, literally. Like a… well, like a wolf.
I frown. “Well… what?”
His smirk deepens. “Well are we doing this outside in the rain or in my room?”
“I… uh, your room would be good?”
He chuckles darkly. I glance past him at the raging party going on.
“Look, if you’re in the middle of something, I can always come back later—”
“I’m ready right now.” He shrugs, his eyes never blinking or leaving mine. “We could go right there on the floor in the middle of it, if an audience is your thing.”
I frown in confusion. “I’m sorry, do you know who I am?”
He shrugs. “I know what you want, and that works for me just fine.”
My frown deepens. “You know what I—” I shake my head. “I’m Tenley.”
“And I’ve got things to do, Tenley,” he grunts thinly. “So if it’s a shag you’re so desperate for, why don’t you turn around, lift that skirt, and say please.”
My mouth falls open, and I stare at him. “Excuse me?!”
His lips grin; the spliff still dangling from them as smoke curls around his piercing green eyes.
“I said to be sure you said please—”
I don’t know what takes ahold of me. I just know that I am not putting up with frat-boy bullshit like this. I’ll take the being relocated to another fucking country. I’ll deal with the fake boyfriend crap. I’ll cater my perfect Plan to fit the new realities of my life. I’ll even deal with snobby rich brats talking down to me because I wasn’t born with a jewelweed scepter up my ass.
But I will not put up with this shit.
Without really thinking it through, my hand darts out. I snatch the glass from his hands, haul back, and splash the contents of it right into his face.
I swear, the music behind him stops. The people behind him freeze and stare with horrified expressions. And it’s only then that I truly realize what I’ve just done.
I just threw a drink in the face of The Wolf—heir apparent to the most brutal mafia family in the world.
And yet, he says nothing. He doesn’t even blink. His gorgeous face drips with scotch. The spliff in his lips dangles limp and soaked against his chin before he spits it out. His jaw grinds.
But suddenly, a fire sparks like molten green magic in his eyes. I gasp as he rapidly closes the short distance between us. His hand juts out, and I choke on my breath as he grabs the front of my raincoat at the neck in a fist. Fear spikes through me as he yanks me hard into him.
The glass drops from my fingers, landing in the wet grass next to the walkway. The hood falls back off my head. Rain pours down over the both of us in sheets as those eyes burn like green fire right into mine. His perfect lips pull back into an animal snarl, white teeth flashing in fury.
I’m petrified. I can’t even scream, let alone try and break free and run for my very life. All I can do is shake as my wide eyes stare up into his.
The seconds tick by as I wait for death. Until finally, his mouth opens.
“Run away, little red,” he snarls thickly and quietly. His grip tightens, almost choking me with the neck of my coat. “Run away, before I eat you up.”
He shoves me back and lets go. I don’t think. I don’t ask what he means. The fight or flight internal war is over in a quarter second: flight wins.
I turn, and I run as fast as I can from the big, bad Wolf of Oxford Hills.
