Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

29

Around me,the party at Lordship Manor rages like a Roman orgy. And there on my throne—almost a literal one, too: a huge leather chair someone’s placed on top of our living room coffee table—I sit like a mad Caesar surveying the carnage.

I’ve lost track of how many scotches I’ve had. But the one currently in my hand is doing me just fine, as is the joint in my lips. I exhale smoke through my nose, leaning back and closing my eyes as The Killers blast over the sound system.

“Misha can be your punishment, Ilya. I’m just your voice of fucking reason.”

Considering that we haven’t spoken in three days, I hate how right Lukas was with that statement. But it’s true. Misha is there to dish out the pain I need sometimes. Lukas is there to talk sense.

But for tapping out of reality and burning like a fucking torch, there is no one better at that than me.

I scowl when I feel the joint plucked out of my lips. When I open my eyes, a girl I don’t know is grinning as she brings it to her own lips to inhale. She turns and pulls another girl who’s name I don’t give a shit about close to shotgun the hit. A few guys around me start to cheer as the two girls kiss.

I turn to drain my scotch before standing abruptly from my throne. I step down, pushing the two joint thieves apart to step through them, to the dismay of the male students around me.

“Hey, where are you—”

I shake my arm free of the first girl when she tries to stop me. I ignore her annoying pout as I surge forward through the party. I can feel a madness on my face—a wild grin on my lips and my eyes narrowed like I’m on the hunt.

Some people try and stop me—to high-five me, or to pass me a drink or a smoke. But even the most wasted of them take one look at me and back off.

That’s probably wise of them.

On a good day, I’m a grumpy, moody fuck. And today is not a good day. None of the last few days have been anything close to good. But tonight, I know I’m going off the deep end.

I can tell myself I don’t give a shit. I can lie and say there are a million other girls in the world that aren’t Tenley, and that I’m losing my shit getting hung up on the one her. But that’s been working just about as good as telling myself it’s “just for the media” when I see pictures of her and Patrick smiling away and holding hands for news outlets.

My alcohol-dulled brain flashes back to the headline I saw earlier today when I opened my laptop.

Commander In-Law??

Apparently, Patrick North was photographed looking at engagement rings in Manchester.

My jaw grits as I shove my way through the party. The fury surges inside of me like a storm ready to smash through the levies and flood the whole fucking place.

I don’t care. I never care. I won’t care.

But it doesn’t matter how many times I say it to myself or force myself to believe it. The burning, gnawing feeling inside of me only grows hotter and sharper, no matter how much I’ve been trying to drown it all night in alcohol and hedonism.

I stumble and shove my way into the study off the living room. It’s just as crowded with students in here—people drinking, laughing, making out. But my eyes land on the desk where two girls and two guys are crowded around a little streaked with powered white lines.

“Oy, bruv!? What the fuck—oh, shit, Volkov!” A guy named Patterson from the football team grins at me with that manic coke smile as he realizes who just butted their way into the party.

“Ilya, brother, get in on—”

I yank the rolled-up pound note from his hand without a word and dip my head to the desk. The first line burns. The second numbs. The third puts me into fucking orbit, and the fourth is just because I’m a greedy shit.

I roar at the ceiling, making the two girls startle with nervous laughs and the two guys glance at each other warily. I growl, teeth bared as I raise my arms and drop the rolled bill onto the now coke-less mirror.

“Rend unto Caesar,” I slur through a manic grin at the guy who offered me the rolled note. I prod a finger into his chest, leering at him like a maniac as he pales.

A hand claps heavily onto my shoulder. I turn with a curled lip, ready to swing until my eyes focus on Misha standing in front of me.

“Having fun?”

“I’m the god of fucking wine,” I grin back. The cocaine is roaring like a demon in my veins, screaming to try and drown out the headlines and the words I keep telling myself I have no regrets about saying to her.

Misha raises a brow. “Yeah, well, let’s take a walk, god of wine.”

He ushers me stumbling out of the study and through the music thudding in the living room. When he leads me out into the backyard, I throw my head back and howl.

“Ilya.”

I focus back on Misha, who’s standing in front of me frowning into my face.

“What?” I snap.

“Slow it down.”

I glare at him. “Wha?”

“You’re losing it, man. You’re on a fucking tear, way more than usual. And it’s making me nervous.”

“Then try being less of a pussy and see if that helps. Pussy.”

His jaw grits. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh?” I smile thinly. “Well please, the suspense is killing me.”

“Go find someone else to punch you in the face, Ilya. It’s not gonna be me.”

I glare at my friend. He glares back.

“What are you doing, man?” Misha sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Living.”

He rolls his eyes and then glances past me. He nods with his chin, and I follow his gaze to see Lukas sitting in a pool chair across the patio. He glares at me. I glare right back.

“How long you gonna keep this shit up?”

I shrug.

“I know for a fact he’s tried to come talk to you a few times since—”

“I’ve got nothing to say to that Judas.”

Misha sighs heavily “You know, instead of drinking and snorting yourself to death as some sort of self-punishment, you could always try just not being an asshole.”

“That sounds awful.”

He grins and shakes his head. “I love you, Ilya. But at a certain point, you need to understand that you’re your own worst enemy.”

I bring the glass of scotch to my lips.

“Just go talk to her, numb-nuts.”

I say nothing.

“Or at the least, go talk to him,” he nods at Lukas. “We’re all brothers, Ilya.”

“Brothers don’t stab each other in the back. Fuck him.”

He rolls his eyes. I shrug and go to take a drink. But Misha grabs it out of my hands, knocks it back, and sets the glass down on the patio table next to us.

“If that’s your idea of an intervention, it was shit.”

He frowns. “Slow it down, Ilya. Please.”

I smile and clap him on the shoulder as I lean close.

“Try and enjoy the party, Misha.”

“Ilya!”

I ignore him as I brush past him, stumbling back into the throes of the party. Music pounds through my head. Sweating bodies surge and pulse around me. There’s a drink in my hand again, and a spliff between my lips as I shove my way through the crowd.

A soft hand grabs me. Through my mania and blurred vision, I see a flash of red hair and freckled shoulders under a strappy dress.

The music dims in my ears. My pulse thuds heavily as I stare at the fuzzy vision pulling me away from the crowd.

Tenley.

I realize I’m smiling—like for real smiling, from ear to ear as she tugs me up the stairs. I hold her hand desperately, gripping it possessively which makes her giggle. She pulls me down the hallway and opens the door to my bedroom.

I blink in confusion. There are two other girls, both mostly naked, on my bed making out. They turn to grin at me as Tenley leads me inside.

I frown. This isn’t right. I don’t want these other two. I don’t want anyone else. I just want—

Tenley turns to me as she starts to peel her shirt off. Dark brown eyes look up at me, and I suddenly yank my hand from hers and pull back.

It’s not Tenley at all.

“Well?” Not-Tenley grins. “We’ve been ready for you all—”

I’m only dimly aware of stumbling down the stairs, ignoring the three voices calling for me to come back upstairs. A drink is pushed in my face, but I shove the person back with a snarl. I lurch into the kitchen and grab a bottle of God knows what from the counter before I just keep lurching. It’s like the momentum itself is carrying me out through the side door, until I almost trip over a rose bush.

And then the night swallows me whole.

At a certain point,my senses return to me. I’m standing in the dark; shirt open, unlit spliff on my lips, and a bottle of something in my hand. And I’m staring up at the dark second-floor window of a cottage.

The burn in my throat is because I smoke too much. The blurred vision is from too many drinks. The chalky grit numbing my sinuses is the drugs.

These are all familiar to me. But the twisting blade in my chest is new. The not being able to drink, smoke, or anger this feeling away is foreign.

I pull the spliff from my lips and bring the bottle up to take a sip. I blink as the vodka sears down my throat. My eyes narrow on the window of Tenley’s bedroom, and the knife twists deeper.

What the fuck has she done to me?