Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

21

I stareat the headline on my laptop screen. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, or the dozen other ones just like it. It’s also not the first time seeing it has put me into a confusing fury.

It’s Going To Be A White-HOUSE Wedding, Says Junior North.

The picture is another one from that fucking ridiculous photoshoot Tenley and fuckface did all over campus a few days ago. This one is them standing in the rose garden—in my fucking rose garden—holding hands with him leaning in to kiss her head again.

Seeing it makes me want to destroy something.

It’d be easy to state the obvious: that this is clearly a PR move to boost his and her fathers on the campaign trail. I mean it’s so painfully obvious it almost hurts.

But something about it has been grinding at me, and it’s finally starting to make sense. Yes, it could be fake. Except for one little detail: Patrick North is not that good of an actor.

He’s a politician’s kid, obviously. And he’s got that shit-eating grin that’ll play well on live TV debates. But the way he looks at her? The way he talks about her to the papers, or the way he’s always trying to kiss her?

I scowl, seeing red.

That’s not acting. Patrick North has fully drunk the Kool-aid, and he’s fully into Tenley. All the shit he’s spouting off about in the papers—marriage, kids with her—those aren’t lines. He means all of it.

And goddamn does that makes me see red. Even if I don’t quite understand why.

Yes, I want Tenley. I want her on her knees, looking up at me saying please. I want her spread out across my bed and wrapping her legs tight around me as I plunge into her.

As always, it’s the defiance in her that brings this out in me. In a school full of girls who would do and say all of those things at the drop of a hat. The one that wouldn’t for a million dollars is the one pulling all of my attention.

But she’s harder to read than Patrick. He’s got it all over his face. Her, though? She’s a mystery. Her emotions are utterly neutral in every picture—the perfect poker face, every time. The smug in me wants to say she’s clearly not interested in Patrick.

The other parts in me groan and wonder why the fuck I care who Tenley is or is not interested in.

I don’t do this. I don’t do girlfriends. I don’t pine after what I can’t have. Because there’s nothing I can’t have.

The wolf fucking hunts. Period.

With a growl in my throat, I slam the laptop shut and shove it away.

It’s been five days since I cornered Tenley in the library. And for five days, I’ve been a saint. Or at least, as close to one as I’m going to be getting. Monday through Friday, I went to class. I did my homework. I studied class notes. I ace both quizzes that got thrown my way mid-week.

I didn’t party. I didn’t drink. I smoked in moderation.

But now, seeing yet another fucking headline about Tenley and Patrick… my eyes narrow.

This is fucking ridiculous. I’m being fucking ridiculous, and it needs to stop. I’m doing what I should. I’m killing it in my classes. I’m staying away from anything hard in terms of partying or drug use.

But I’ve been pretending to be something I’m not. Because for the first time ever, like it or not, I’ve been fixating on one fucking girl.

That has to end.

As if scripted, my phone dings. I glance down to see a text from Misha, which is ridiculous because I know he’s home, down the fucking hall from me.

“U through being lame? Party tonight at Lachlan House.”

Interesting. Lachlan house is another non-cottage student house across campus. Historically, it was the first housing for girls when Oxford Hills went from an all-boys academy to both sexes after World War Two. For the last decade or so, it’s unofficially become the girls football team’s housing.

Lachlan House is nothing like Lordship Manor. But it’s at least somewhat bigger than the cottages, it’s fairly private, and it’s on the bank of a small pond with a dock. And the girl footballers tend to throw one riot of a party.

My eyes narrow as I tap out a “let’s go” back to Misha.

This being a monk shit ends. And it ends tonight. One way or another, I’m drinking, smoking, snorting, or fucking Tenley Chambers and the mountain of baggage that comes with her out of my goddamn system. For good.

“Toldyou you’d have fun if you just let yourself.”

Misha claps a hand on my back and clinks his glass to mine. Lukas leans in to touch glasses as well

“Na zdorovie, my brothers,” Misha grunts. Cheers.

We drink and sit back on the patio chairs we’re sitting in outside Lachlan house by the pond. Around us, other students are reveling in another week at one of the hardest private schools in the world being over with. A few guys from the football team are playing beer-pong on a table across the garden. There’s a shriek as couple of girls start stripping to their underwear to jump in the pond.

I smirk and turn to Misha. “Well, there’s your cue.”

He grins at me, but he just shakes his head as he knocks back his whiskey.

I frown. “Did your dick finally stop working?”

Misha glares at me and shrugs again. “No, I’m just fine relaxing right now.”

I glance at a smirking Lukas. “Fill me in.”

“He’s got eyes for someone in particular—”

“I don’t have eyes for shit, motherfucker,” Misha grunts, glaring at Lukas. “What, I can’t just hang out with my friends and enjoy a drink? There just has to be a half-naked girl hanging off each of my arms every time I go to a party?”

“History would suggest…” Lukas mutters into his drink.

I smirk as Misha flips him off.

And then, I see her. And all of my plans—all of my ideas of cutting myself free from Tenley Chambers and these stupid games I’ve been playing with her go up in smoke.

She looks good. She looks too good, actually. Tenley is wearing this tiny little black cocktail dress. It’s almost the kind of little black dress you’d wear to a formal thing like a fundraiser or a fine dinner. But it’s maybe one inch too short to pass for formal. The neck plunges an inch too far for a fundraiser.

My jaw grits as I stare at her through the windows of Lachlan House, inside in the kitchen. It doesn’t matter to me that there’s a wall separating us. I don’t even give a shit that she’s here with Patrick.

The Wolf has caught the scent of his prey once more. And I’ll huff, puff, and blow every single house down to get to her.

“What are you doing here?”

She whirls, and then frowns when her eyes land on me. But she also blushes. Her eyes hold mine before it’s as if she remembers to quickly look away.

She’s still blushing. And I know it’s because she’s still remembering the words I growled into her ear at the library five days ago.

Her tongue slips out to wet her lips as she raises her eyes to mine.

“It’s a party, Ilya.”

I arch a brow as she brings a cup to her lips, taking a drink.

“It’s a party,” she repeats, her voice thin. “I’m allowed to have fun.”

“If I say so, you mean.”

She blushes again, biting her lip. But then she catches herself. She stiffens, her brow furrowing as she glares at me.

“No, Ilya,” she whispers. “No. We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“That.” She rakes her teeth over her lip again. “That control thing.”

“What control thing?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not here to play mind games, okay?”

“Then tell me, what are you here for?”

She purses her lips. Her cheeks flush, and she turns to glance around at the party around us.

“You’re here with him,” I snarl.

She rolls her eyes. “My boyfriend, you mean?” She says tersely. “You mean I’m here with my boyfriend, Ilya—”

“How about we stop playing that game?”

Her mouth snaps shut. She glances around, like she’s looking for him. I don’t know or care if she’s doing it to seek help or to make sure he’s not close enough to hear me. Frankly, in this moment, I don’t give a shit either way.

I know she’s not his. And I know I’m failing miserably at telling myself I could care less even if she was.

“Does he still know you’re tutoring me?”

Her red face says it all.

“Interesting,” I muse, stroking my fingers across my chin.

“Ilya—”

“And does he know about our… arrangement?”

She frowns. “Our—”

There it is. She gets it now. Her eyes widen as her face burns crimson.

“We are not talking about that here!” She hisses under her breath.

“Talking about what, Red?” I growl as I step closer to her. She stiffens, but she doesn’t back away. I move even closer, until when I lean down, my lips are by her ear.

“Do you mean we’re not talking about you coming for my fingers the other night?”

Her breath catches. Her body stiffens.

“Stop it, Ilya—”

“I thought I’d made myself clear,” I growl into the hollow of her neck, making her whimper quietly.

“You are… what’s the word you used?” I grin. “Indebted to me.”

When I pull back, she’s looking at me with a swirling mix of emotions on her face: anger, fear; but also something deeper and more visceral. And I suddenly realize it’s excitement.

She swallows, shaking her head as her cheeks burn.

“I…” She drags her teeth across her plump lip. “Ilya, I can’t—”

“Now where did that Patrick go?” I frown as if I’m scanning the room. Her hand lands on my arm delicately.

“What do you want?”

I drag my eyes back to hers. My pulse thuds as her big blue eyes meet my green hooded ones.

“What do you want?” she whispers breathlessly.

My pulse is thudding. My cock surges in my pants as the desire swells. The nearness of her is fucking with me, as it always seems to do—making me weak. Making me make bad decisions. Making me play the games I never want to play.

I lean close to her ear. She stiffens, but it’s not out of fear. It’s to clamp her mouth shut and muffle a whimper on her lips.

“You,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “I want you.”

A second ticks by, both of us frozen in the dark corner of Lachlan house where we’re standing.

“When?” she whispers haltingly.

My eyes pierce into hers.

“Now.”