Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

4

If the fireplacein our cottage would fit right in at Hogwarts, the dining hall could have doubled as the main set. Charlotte and I joking refer to going to lunch sometimes as “BLT confessional”—for the aforementioned sandwich we both love, and the fact that the Oxford Hills Academy dining hall literally used to be part of a cathedral.

Huge stone pillars tower up a gorgeous wooden ceiling that always reminds me of an upside-down sailing ship. Beautiful old tapestries drape some walls, while framed rugby jerseys of past champions and academic pennants festoon others.

Walking in, the dynamics of the students could be out of any teen comedy movie—the jock types lounging around one table. The artsy types sketching at another, while the drama club speaks to each other in Shakespearean English in a far corner.

The only major difference between this and a teen comedy is that instead of plastic trays and metal bench-seating, Oxford Hills has fine china, silver cutlery, and ornate hand-built round wooden tables fit for a head of state.

I leave my umbrella and Charlotte’s raincoat by the door and step down the few steps into the dining hall. I walk past the jocks, the artists, the nerdy types—including little Lain—playing a fantasy board game at another table.

“There she is.”

The confident and yet gentle presidential tone. I turn and smile at the blond, tall boy with the sparkling blue eyes nodding a cleft chin at me.

Ah yes, and the popular crowd table. And who better to preside over the best of the best than the son of the future leader of the free world?

But I sigh and shake my head at myself. For all the jokes Charlotte and I make about Patrick, he’s not a bad person. He’s charming, and magnanimous, and kind—a little curt sometimes, and a little snobby around the edges. But that’s just his upbringing. Future Vice President Martin Chambers might not come from wealth and privilege. But the North family is dripping in it.

All things considered, being “with” a guy like Patrick is hardly a cross to bear. He’s the golden child with the farm-boy smile, the tall, athletic frame, and the do-gooder heart who goes out and helps at women’s shelters and food banks, for crying out loud. I mean so what if he wants to send messengers instead of texts?

I smile as I walk towards him. It might not be romantic—at least, not really. Not unless we’re talking to a reporter or in public. But it’s not like being friends with Patrick is a bad thing.

“Hey babe,” he grins at me as I walk over to the table full of other golden-children. Carl Yoon, OHA’s star striker on the football—aka soccer—team, as well as the son of a Korean shipping billionaire, gets up from his chair next to Patrick. I smile and try and wave it off when he offers me the seat, but he insists until I do.

“Timeliness, Tenley,” Patrick says with a weirdly fatherly arch of his brow, tapping his wristwatch.

“Sorry, I was—”

“Tea, Miss Chambers?”

Okay, that’s going to take some getting used to. The Oxford Hills dining hall comes with waiters. Waiters who know everyone’s names, at that.

I turn and smile up at the man offering tea from a Stirling silver tray.

“Oh… no, thank you.” I smile.

“Very good, Miss Chambers. The offering tonight for main course is a beef bourguignon, a scallop sashimi with lemon confit, tagliatelle with duck, or a—”

“Scallop sashimi sounds amazing, thank you…” I frown, my eyes searching his jacket for a name tag or something. “Sorry, what’s your—”

“Just the scallop, thanks,” Patrick interrupts, his voice kind but firm. His dismissal before I can ask the man his name is clearly on purpose. It’s also elitist in that way that makes my jaw grind.

“And another chicken breast for Yoon, here,” Patrick laughs off his elitism by reaching over me to clap a hand on Carl’s shoulder. “Gotta make sure our star has the protein and stamina to take us to the championships this year, right?”

“Very good, sir,” the nameless waiter smiles with a bow before he disappears.

“The help here these days…” Ainsley Hendershire, the daughter of England’s largest grocery store magnate, and another of the golden-crowd, sighs dramatically.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

This is politics. I get that. And I fully understand that playing politics like pretending to be cordial at dinner to spoiled little brats like Ainsley Hendershire is going to be a big part of being a lawyer and then judge.

But honestly.

“And how are you enjoying Oxford Hills so far, Tenley?” The boy with the crisp accent and dark skin is Malik Ibrahim, whose family owns half the oilfields in Eastern Africa. I vaguely remember that he’s also the new captain of the Oxford Hills rugby team this year.

I smile. “So far, so good! Yeah, I’m excited to start classes on Monday, but I’m settling in nicely. I really like my roommate, too.”

“Oh, you’re with Princess Diaries, aren’t you?”

Ainsley smiles a very, very fake smile my way. Okay, the waiters are going to take some getting used to. So is eating dinner in a den of vipers, apparently.

“Charlotte, yeah,” I say thinly back.

A hand sets a plate of salad in front of me.

“Watercress and endive with a spritz of grapefruit and walnut oil, Miss Chambers.”

I smile and turn to the man. “Thank you! Sorry, what—”

“That will be all, thank—”

“What’s your name?” This time, I cut Patrick off right back, smiling up at the middle-aged waiter.

“Thomas, Miss. Chambers.”

“Nice to meet you, Thomas. The salad looks delicious.”

He smiles warmly, nods, and takes his leave.

Predictably, Ainsley sighs heavily. She flashes me a look of disapproval, which I pointedly ignore as I dig into the appetizer.

“Honestly, I like the…” Malik strums his fingers through the air, like he’s looking for a word. “The bohemian feel of the service and the dining facilities here. It feels as though we are roughing it… like we are camping, does it not?”

The other sons and daughters of billionaires and royalty around the table laugh and nod. I stuff endives into my mouth so I won’t say something I’ll regret later. I mean there are waiters, we’re eating in a hall fit for a king and queen, and the food is prepared by a Michelin-starred chef.

And this is roughing it?

The rest of them lapse into various conversations about school, money, and the UK Premier League as I shovel watercress down my throat.

“How was your day, Tenley?”

I look up as Patrick exits the general table banter to turn to me. I swallow my food and shrug.

“It was… fine.”

“What were you saying before? About why you were late?”

I ignore the flash of “none of your goddamn business” that rises inside of me.

“Oh, I just had this thing.”

“What thing?”

I reach for my crystal wineglass filled with lemon-scented water.

“I signed up to be a tutor this semester.” I shrug. “For my resume.”

Patrick smiles. “That’s very noble of you.” He chuckles. “Though I’m afraid you might find yourself quite bored.”

I smile puzzlingly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone looking for a tutor at Oxford Hills,” he chuckles. “And anyone who does need one here…” he shrugs. “Well, they’re not really Oxford Hills material then, are they?”

Whatever I want to say—whatever argument that part of me desperately wants to start—I swallow it back with another sip of water.

“I did have someone, actually. But he…” My mind flashes back to The Wolf himself—shirtless, muscled, and tattooed, leaning nonchalantly against the doorway to his castle with smoke curling around his face like a dragon. I feel my face flush.

“He bailed on me.”

Patrick frowns. “Well, shows exactly why he’s the type who needs tutoring in the first place. Who was it?”

My lips thin tightly. I could lie, but what’s the point. And why would I anyway? Besides, tomorrow, it won’t even be an issue when I ditch him for another student to tutor.

Just the same, I blurt the name just as I swallow a huge gulp of water, hoping it cools the burn on my cheeks.

“Ilya Volkov.”

The entire table goes silent. Seven sets of eyes turn to stare at me in horror and shock, like I’ve just stood up in my chair, flashed my ass, and told them to all go fuck themselves.

“You are shitting me,” Ainsley blurts breathlessly, breaking the silence. She looks like she’s just swallowed a large bug.

“The criminal?” Malik chokes, wide-eyed with a wrinkled nose.

“Tenley, you’re joking, right?”

I turn to frown at Patrick. His eyes bore into me, and there’s an intense look on his furrowed brow.

“Look, I’m going to change—”

“Tenley,” he says quietly. But his voice has an edge to it. And his face is tensed, almost angry. “You’re new to Oxford Hills, but you need to catch up.”

I frown. “I’m caught up just fine, Patrick. I—”

“He’s a fucking scumbag, Tenley.”

Patrick isn’t much of a swear-user. So the word bites hard.

“He’s Russian mafia. He’s literally killed people.”

I frown. Okay, he’s terrifying, and a smug, foul-mouthed asshole. But… c’mon. This takes schoolyard rumor mill to the next level. Even the thing with his uncle being in the Russian mob… I mean that doesn’t mean Ilya is a gangster or anything.

Half the kids at Oxford come from rich families accused of all sorts of evil shit. Giselle Bocanilla’s family was accused of hiring hit squads to put down unionizing attempts at their Brazilian fruit farms. The star keeper for the football team’s last name is Hussain for God’s sake. And yes, it’s that Hussain family.

So Ilya shares the name Volkov with a guy that does terrible, illegal stuff. So far, the only thing it’s clear it’s done is make Ilya a bad-boy rock-star at Oxford, complete with the ego and smug arrogance.

I smile at Patrick. “Look, he was a dick anyway, so I’m not going to even be tutoring—”

“I thought he stood you up?”

Patrick’s eyes narrow. I swallow and try and figure out why I feel so guilty right now. Or why it feels like I’m hiding something.

“He… no, I mean, I went to his house. But he was a rude jerk, and tomorrow, I’m going to make sure they switch me to someone—”

“I want you to stay away from him,” Patrick snaps coldly.

I frown. “Yes, that is the general plan. Which is why if you’d let me finish a fucking sentence now and then…”

I’m aware of my voice having risen too loudly. So has the rest of the table, and the one next to us. I blush fiercely as I get control of myself.

“I’m officially making sure I’m not tutoring him tomorrow when the student services office opens.”

“Good,” Patrick glowers. “He’s a fucking psychopath.”

“Legit psycho, Tenley,” Ainsley parrots.

“Tenley.” Patrick takes my hands in his and squeezes as he leans close. “He’s not anything you want to be involved with here. It could destroy our—your future.”

I nod, smiling quietly.

“Okay, I get it. Really. I’ll stay away.”

His shoulders relax. “Good girl.”

The arrival of my scallops seems to turn down the temperature of the conversation. The table returns to royal gossip, financial markets, and footballs scores while I chew and brood.

Later, when I’m done, Patrick walks me home. It’s not even raining out anymore, but he insists. Our arrangement is weird. It’s a relationship that was specifically put together by a PR team. We both know it’s not real. And yet, Patrick takes it seriously even when we’re alone. In a touching way, it makes me wonder if he really wants this to be more than a PR stunt.

It’s not like I like Patrick in that way. But it is nice to feel… I don’t know. Watched out for? Taken care of? To have someone smile at you?

At the door to my cottage, he kisses my cheek. Whether this is truly fake or if Patrick actually likes me, that’s all he ever does—a kiss on the cheek; maybe a held hand.

Then, he’s gone, and I slip inside. Charlotte is in her room with the door shut and music playing, so I leave her be to escape to mine. It’s not that late, but I change for bed anyway. I brush my teeth, comb my long red hair out, and crawl under the covers.

Thunder cracks outside, startling me. The rain is back, drumming against the glass. I sink under the sheets, my mind a jumble.

It’s nice to feel cared for; to feel watched out for. And I like the way Patrick smiles at me with that golden blond hair and twinkling blue eyes.

But when I close my eyes and drift to sleep, I dream of storm clouds. I dream of dark hair, and piercing green-fire eyes, and tattoo ink.

I dream of a wolf’s gaping maw, snarling as it opens wide to swallow me whole.