Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

17

I have a Plan.No one ever said it was going to be an easy path, but it’s the road I’ve laid out for myself nevertheless.

It involves exceeding at one of the best schools in the world. It involves going to Columbia, then Harvard Law. It involves Welsley and Kane, and then Lancer, Stein, and Ramirez.

It involves the Supreme Court.

It involves being the daughter of the next Vice President. It involves holding hands and smiling for the cameras with Patrick.

Thatis the plan. That’s my path. And absolutely not a single fucking bit of it involves kissing Ilya Volkov.

This is a mantra I’ve told myself a dozen times in the day and half since he kissed me again, twice.

“You should have kept away.”

And I should have. So why the hell can’t I?

“Does it owe you money?”

I frown as I raise my eyes. Charlotte is looking at me curiously from across the kitchen.

“Huh?”

“Your waffle.”

I lower my gaze to my place, to the waffle that Charlotte made me. The one that currently has about forty stab marks from my fork in it, though without a single bite. I feel my face burn as I look back to my friend.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry to me. Say sorry to the poor waffle.”

I grin. “Sorry, waffle.”

Charlotte nods before turning back to her waffle iron. It’s Saturday, and the only plans I have involve a refresher of the week by going over my class notes, and probably more The Good Wife marathoning with Charlotte. We’ve decided to skip the dining hall in favor of breakfast at the cottage. But the waffles were an interesting surprise.

“What were you dwelling about?”

I stiffen. “Hmm?”

“Just now while you were repeatedly murdering the poor waffle. Who were you wishing it was?”

I grin. “Do I come off as that psychotic?”

“Driven,” she grins. “The nice word is driven.”

“Very funny.”

She turns back to her waffle iron, sipping her tea.

“Hey, so is this baking thing part of your princess classes?”

“Ha ha.” She turns, looking sheepish. “Okay, sort of.”

I laugh loudly. “Waffles are part of royalty training?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, but petite fours, and tea-sweets are.”

“How’s that working out?”

She points to the automatic waffle press. “How do you think?”

I grin, sipping my latte as I drop my eyes back to the waffle on my plate.

“You’re not still dwelling on the whole Ilya rumor, are you?”

I blush. Yes.

“No, of course not.”

She turns to smile at me. “See? I told you this place would forget about that in no time. I haven’t heard a single peep about it since the other day.”

She’s not wrong. Not a single person has given me any crap about Ilya Volkov having been seen leaving my cottage the other day. Because of course, there’s always a new drama. Or a new story. Or a new couple breaking up that the whole school needs to be in the know about.

“They always find something new to latch onto, like a pack of piranhas,” she shrugs. “Today should help.”

I glance up. “Why should today help?”

“Oh my God, are you kidding me? A home match always sucks all the air out the rest of this place.”

I wince. “Shit, the socc—er, football match. That’s today?”

“Yeah, in like twenty minutes.” She shrugs. “But it’s not like you have to go. I’m not.”

I groan. “Patrick wanted me to be there.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, we wouldn’t want to forget to ask ‘how high’ when Lord Patrick North asks you to jump.”

“Har har,” I groan. “C’mon, you know it’s not like that.”

“I know, I’m just giving you shit.”

I frown. “You know what, though? I don’t want to. So, I’m not.”

She grins. “There’s my girl. Another waffle?”

“Yes plea—”

There’s a knock at the door that interrupts me.

“I’ll get it.”

I take a bite of the waffle, and then walk across the cottage in my pajamas to fling the door wide. My mood darkens when I see Lain fidgeting on our doorstep.

“Uh, Miss Chambers?”

I sigh heavily. “You’re here to ask me about the match.”

Lain smiles awkwardly. “I am, yes.”

“Well…” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Please tell Patrick that I’m afraid I’m going to sit this one out. But to have fun—”

“He wanted me to tell you that this one was ‘non negotiable’.”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“Yes, sorry, he said to tell you to…” Lain fidgets. “To ‘think of the brand.’”

I scowl. Goddamnit. I could sit here stewing. But on the same hand, Patrick does have a point, sort of. The brand is The Plan. Period. And like I said, no one said the path to the Supreme Court was going to be easy. In fact, it’s going to be hard every step of the way.

So what’s a dumb football game with Patrick?

I take a breath. Besides, if nothing else, it’ll be good for one single thing: getting Ilya Volkov and his lips out of my damn head.

“Breathe that in!”

Next to me on the bleachers, Patrick inhales deeply as the roaring crowd cheers around us. On the field—the pitch, that is—the soccer ball—no, the football—is being kicked around. But that’s pretty much the extent of my football knowledge.

“It’s electric, the energy here. Isn’t it?”

I smile politely. “Yeah, it’s exciting!”

And it is, even if I’m not a sport person. Oxford Hills Academy’s first match of the season is a home game against Manchester Prep, an all-boys boarding school known for molding two things: ruthless corporate CEOs, and professional footballers.

The crowd is mostly Oxford Hills, but there are definitely a good amount of Manchester Prep fans here as well. There are also camera crews. But they’re not here for the future all-stars playing on the pitch. They’re here for us: Patrick and I.

He’s already explained the situation, I’m just having a hard time putting it together in my head. I’m also having a hard time getting over the fact that I could have heard this from my own dad, or even from his PR people, instead of Patrick. But here we are.

Back in the States, George North is starting a string of public appearances that will lead to his much-anticipated announcement of his run for the presidency. As part of the media storm surrounding that lead up, his team, and more than a couple of big new outlets, want the inside scoop on his son’s “budding romance” with his potential VPs daughter.

Cringe.

But I smile when a cameraman sticks a huge lens in our faces and clicks away. I know this is stupid, but it’s all a part of the whole thing. This is the game, so I might as well learn to play it.

“Yoon is crushing it out there!” Patrick yells excitedly.

It sort of just looks like a bunch of guys passing a ball around. But I’ll take Patrick’s word on it.

“Where were you the other night, by the way?”

I frown, turning to him.

“Hmm?”

“The other night. Where were you?”

My brows furrow. “Which night?”

“Two nights ago.”

I tremble as something hot teases up my spine. Two nights ago, when I kissed Ilya. I frown. No, when he kissed me. Twice.

I force those memories from my head though as I smile at Patrick. “Uh, the gym? Remember I told you at dinner I was going to go for a run and maybe try some of the machines?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t see you there when I went.”

I stiffen. “You were there?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Where were you?”

I swallow. I take a breath and try and clear my head. “Oh, yeah, I got there and remembered I’d totally forgotten about this stupid group study thing I was going to jump in on.”

What the fuck, self? I couldn’t go with “I felt sick” or “I was tired” or something that can’t be verified as bullshit later?

But Patrick just smiles. I exhale in tentative relief.

“Didn’t mean to pry, sorry. I’d just missed you is all.”

A camera juts into our faces, clicking away. Patrick takes my hand. I let him as we both turn to smile for the small crew of photographers clicking away.

“Patrick! Tenley! Over here!”

We turn to smile at another group of them.

“I don’t know which is going to be hotter, North!” An America newswoman with big blonde hair and a southern twang grins. “The campaign trail, or you two!”

I smile harder, gritting my teeth.

“I’ll write that article for you, Kim,” Patrick laughs easily. “Spoiler, it’s us.”

Before I can even react, he’s turned, awkwardly palmed my cheek, and has started to lean in. I realize at the very last second that Patrick is trying to kiss me, on the mouth. I turn, and his lips brush my cheek instead as the cameras click way.

“Aww, c’mon, Tenley,” he chuckles, pulling away.

I cringe, looking around. We’re surround by people and cameras.

“Patrick, there are people—”

“So?” He beams. “I want the world to know that I’m in love with this girl!” He crows loudly.

I freeze. My face burns as dozens of eyes turn to us. I turn to look at him, trying to read his face. Is this some new level the PR people want from us? We’re not just a smile and hold hands couple, we’re fucking kissing and saying the L-word now?!

I lean close to his ear.

“Seriously, are you doing this for the cameras? Can we talk about—”

“I’m not doing it for the cameras, Tenley,” he says quietly as he turns to me. He pulls back from me, and he actually looks kind of wounded.

“Patrick—”

“I’m not,” he smiles—gently, and genuinely, and takes my hands in his.

“I want us to be a real us, babe,” he says quietly. “For real. Does it play well for the media? Of course it does. But that’s not why. I want a future for us, Tenley. I want you by my side when I run for Senate. I want to come home to our beautiful family—”

“I think I’d be working pretty late at the firm, Patrick,” I laugh nervously. “I mean, partner-track is a grueling workload.”

“You wouldn’t need to, though.” He grins. “Be my Jackie, Tenley. My Laura Bush. My Nancy Reagan.”

I feel cold.

“Patrick…”

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” he laughs, pulling me close with an arm over my shoulder. “For now, let’s just watch some football, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“And later we can discuss if I’ll even make it to sophomore year at college without proposing to you,” he belts loud enough for the cameras to hear.

So much forcatching up on class notes and watching Netflix. The rest of the day is a blur as a side character in the life of Patrick North. There’s not just a few camera people there, there are a lot of news people here. This was an ambush, not a last-minute photo op.

I’m paraded around the whole fucking campus, posing with Patrick in front of the dining hall, my cottage, his. We even pose, holding hands, next to the fucking Dean of Students.

It feels like I’m shaking. Like I’m in a horrible dream I can’t wake up from. I keep telling myself that this is all part of The Plan, but it’s losing its power every time I say it.

Because the whole time, with every picture standing there holding Patrick’s hand and pretending we’re a couple, I’m not thinking of Mr. Golden Boy.

I’m thinking of The Wolf.

I’m remembering his lips on mine… his hands on me. The savagery and dark power that surrounds him. And it leaves my heart thumping and my skin tingling. It leaves me feeling like I’m going to explode.

Somehow, I get all the way to dinner time without detonating like a human bomb. I’m numb as I sit with all of the rest of the elites. The entire dining hall is in an uproar, too—yelling and screaming with cheers of victory. Apparently, Oxford Hills won the match with Manchester Prep today.

Carl Yoon looks like he’s on cloud nine. Part of me does feel the general excitement that the whole school is feeling right now. But I’m only halfway there. The other half of me is still thinking of him.

“Oh, three at least. Right, babe?”

I blink and turn in a daze. “Hmm?”

Patrick laughs and puts his arm around me. He nods to Ainsley who’s beaming away at us, fluttering her eyes at Patrick.

“Ainsley asked how many kids we’re having.”

I almost choke on my green beans.

“Our kids?”

He grins. “Yeah!”

“Patrick, I am eighteen.”

He chuckles. “Not now. But, you know, in a couple years maybe.”

“In a couple years I’ll be in law school.”

He smiles. “We’ll see.”

He turns to start screaming about football to Yoon as the color drains from my face.

What the fuck is happening? The walls feel like they’re closing in. My throat constricts. My pulse is so fast that I feel dizzy, and black spots dot my vision. I’m either having a heart attack or a panic attack. Either way, I need to get the hell away from all of this, right now.

I lurch to my feet.

“Babe?” Patrick frowns. “What’s up?”

“I have a ton of notes to catch up on,” I blurt.

Patrick grins. “There’s my girl.”

My girl.

This isn’t what I signed up for.

“Hey, there’s a party at Yoon’s cottage quad later. Maybe we could—”

“I really have to study, Patrick.”

He nods. “Okay, no problem.” He stands and pulls me in. I panic and twist my face. Once again, he kisses my cheek.

“Later, babe.”

It takes every ounce of my control to walk and not run from the dining hall. Outside, though, I break into a sprint.

But I’m not going home to my cottage. I’m not going to study notes. I need to be grounded. I need to feel something real, even if it’s something bad.

Or maybe, that’s exactly what I want.