Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

27

It’s early enoughthat Charlotte is still sleeping when I creep up the stairs to my room. Angry, confused, and still tingling from last night, I yank Ilya’s hoodie, the party dress, and then the ridiculous lingerie he bought me off.

A shower would be amazing. But I don’t want to wake Charlotte, just in case. And besides, what I really want to do is push myself somehow—to scream, or hit something, or run.

Running wins out. I change into my workout stuff to head to the track for a run. But first, I slip into my desk chair and open my laptop to check my email.

I stare, a smile creeping over my face. The first one is from my dad, who I’ve barely spoken two words to since I got here.

Hey, kiddo!

Just wanted to check in! I know I’ve been a real ass lately being so MIA. It’s just this damn campaign thing and the hoops these PR people have me jumping through day and night. Can we make a time to call this week? I can’t wait to hear how things are going over there. I’m so proud of you, teammate.

Love always,

Dad

I re-read it, three times. I’m crying the whole time. It’s that corny, stupid “teammate” thing that does it, too.

When I was eleven, my mom, who had sort of checked out on my dad and I years before anyway, died in a car crash. She was the passenger, and the man driving, who was drunk at the time, was the man she’d been secretly having an affair with for over three years.

When that came out, suddenly, a whole lot of lies started to unravel. Slowly, I started to realize how much dad and I had both been gaslit, and lied to, and strung along for years. And that was what she was best at: mind games.

After it happened, even if her death showed my dad her infidelity, he was a wreck. And obviously, so was I. But one day, my dad—the Navy lawyer without a single arts and crafts bone in his body—made me a baseball hat.

It was one of those kits you can get where you paint with this plastic paint crap and then bake it on low heat or something to seal it in. One night when I’d been asleep, my dad had made matching ones for each of us, with a big “C” logo at the front.

“For team Chambers,” he’d grinned when he gave it to me the next day. “Matching hats, since we’re teammates.”

It was the first time I’d seen him smile since the accident.

I’m wiping the tears away as I step into my bathroom and bring the phone to my ear.

“Honey, is everything okay?”

I scrunch my face up. Shit. It’s like two in the morning back in DC.

“Sorry!” I wince. “I totally forgot the time—”

“Nah,” he grunts. I hear him clear his throat and covers rustling. “Nah, don’t sweat it. I’m up.”

“No, dad, go back to bed, it’s like two in the morning.”

“And I can’t think of a better time to catch up with my favorite daughter.”

I grin at our other dumb joke of my being his favorite daughter. I’m an only child.

“Dad, you should sleep. Your schedule must be nuts right now.”

“Exactly,” he chuckles. “So now is the perfect time to chat without my interns or one of those PR pricks freaking out about getting me to my next appointment.”

I grin as I sit on the edge of the bathtub.

“So have they told you when they’re announcing?”

“Eh, sort of. They have a window where their statistics crunchers and media analyzers will narrow it down.”

“Are you excited?”

“Well, yeah…” he chuckles. “Yeah, I am, actually.” My dad whistles lowly. “I mean hell, who’d have ever imagined me one heartbeat away from running the whole damn show?”

“Me.”

He laughs. “Well, I think you’re a party of one.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. Dad, like they’d have asked you if they weren’t positive about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he sighs. “Enough about that boring stuff, though.”

“How is that boring?” I laugh.

“Because I’d rather hear about you! How’s Hogwarts?”

I giggle. “Hogwarts is fine. I’m killing it in Dark Arts.”

“Nice. Go Ravenclaw.”

I grin. “Dark Arts is more a Slytherin thing.”

“Oh, right. Well, go them.”

“They’re the bad guys.”

“I should probably read Harry Potter at some point, shouldn’t I?”

I laugh. “Maybe.”

“Well honestly though, how’s everything going?”

“Good. I actually love it here.”

“See!” He laughs. “Told you.”

I smile. When it was first announced by the PR team that I’d be relocating to a famously snobby and rich private school in England for my senior year, I was pissed. And I promised my dad I’d go, even though I’d probably hate being there.

“The level of experience the professors have here is insane. I’ve been going to lectures and discussions for classes I’m not even in, because it’s so fascinating.”

“Nerd.”

I laugh.

“Princess Charlotte’s good?”

I groan. “Yeah, just don’t call her Princess Charlotte.”

He chuckles. “And how’s the tutoring thing?”

I stiffen, my heart skipping.

“Fine,” I say quickly. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

He sighs. “Okay, I know what this is about.”

I frown. “What?”

“The glum tone, even though you’re gushing about this place.”

“Dad, what are you—”

“This is about him, right?”

I freeze. The color drains from my face as I start to wonder how in the hell my dad knows about Ilya—

“Look, I know Patrick is…”

I exhale.

“I mean, he’s a nice kid, but I get that he’s kind of a douche.”

I laugh. “Dad! Careful! There is no way your phones aren’t bugged right now for security reasons.”

“So? Hi, FBI,” he chuckles.

“So maybe don’t call your soon-to-be boss’s son a douche?”

“If George isn’t aware of his son’s douche status, I’m not sure I can run with him.”

I bury my face in my arm to not laugh so loudly that I wake Charlotte.

“Look, Tenley,” he sighs. “I get it. I know you never signed up for a fake relationship and all the crap that comes with that.”

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. You’re a senior at this great school with all these interesting people. You should be meeting someone you actually organically click with. Not parading around holding hands for the cameras with Captain America.”

I smile, looking down.

Oh don’t worry, I have.

The only problem is, he’s the heir to a criminal empire that you and your running mate are about to declare war on.

“Dad, it’s fine,” I say quietly. “No, really, it is.”

“Tenley—”

“I’m not here for that, dad. I’m here for The Plan, and to ace my way through here, and then it’s on—”

“To Columbia, and the Supreme Court. Yeah,” he chuckles. “I know.”

“There’s a few extra steps in there,” I mutter.

He laughs. “Yeah, but not a single one of them involves meeting someone you want to spend your time with or spend your life with. Or hell, Tenley, someone you just want to have a little fun with.”

My face burns crimson. “Dad!”

He chuckles. “We’re all human, kiddo. Don’t forget that part on your march to the judge’s bench.” He sighs. “So c’mon, level with me. There’s not a single fun distraction over there for you?”

Not anymore.

“No,” I shake my head. “No distractions, dad. They’re not on The Plan.”

I know he’s trying to be nice, and I love that he tries to keep me in the real world sometimes, if only just to make sure I’m not pushing myself too hard. But he’s wrong.

I don’t need distractions. I don’t need anything knocking me off my plotted course. And I sure as hell do not need Ilya Volkov muddying the waters.

“Alright, alright. Fine.”

When he yawns, I smile.

“Go to sleep, dad.”

“Nah, I’m—”

“Really. You’re going to need it.”

He sighs. “Yeah, you might be right.”

“Can we talk soon though?”

“You bet. Great to talk to you, sweetheart.”

“Love you, dad.”

“I love you too.”

When he hangs up, I drop my face into my hands. I allow myself one minute of stinging tears before I stand and wipe them away.

I know what I have to do.

I need to focus. I need to stop the distractions, once and for all. And I need to eject Ilya from my life, entirely.

I march downstairs, take a breath, narrow my eyes, and swing the door open…

Only to come face-to-face with Ilya.

After I shut it,I cling to the closed door, panting and trembling with my eyes squeezed shut. For a second, I think he’s pounding on the other side of it. But then I realize it’s just my heart against my chest.

I almost can’t believe I just stood up to him. And moreover, goaded him with those lies about the night being “okay” or “not terrible.” I also almost can’t believe I managed to pull that off with a poker face.

I count to thirty before I slowly turn and peer gingerly through the peephole in the door. I’m almost expecting to see a scowling green eye waiting to look back at me. But the coast is clear.

He’s gone.

I exhale slowly in relief. No more mind games. I swore I’d never get mixed up in them, because of my mother. But here I am waist-deep in them, and it’s all because of him.

But now, he’s gone.

My brow furrows. But I shake it away as I turn to tip toe up the stairs, careful not to wake Charlotte. Screw the run. Now I just want to climb into bed and—

I gasp as I open my room to find Charlotte perched on the edge of my bed with her arms crossed and a brow raised sharply.

“Uh, what are you—”

“If you think you’re going to go one more second without telling me what the bloody hell is going on between you and Ilya bleeding Volkov, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

I sigh, looking down as I shake my head.

“Got any plans today?”

“Not anymore.”

“Good,” I groan as I sink down next to her. “This might take a second.”

Charlotteand I end up making a day of it. We close the curtains, order in food, and lie low. And it’s heaven. I spill my insanity with Ilya, which is totally embarrassing, but she’s amazing so it’s fine. And then we just avoid the world all day.

No cameras. No lying. No Patrick.

And no fucking Ilya.

And yet, later, when I close my eyes to drift off to sleep for the night, I dream of Russian tattoos, howling wolves, and the pulse-thudding ecstasy of Ilya’s hands and mouth running over every single inch of me…