Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

6

The backyard gardens are gorgeous.The private bathrooms are heaven, and the Hogwarts fireplaces are stunning. But quite possibly my favorite part of the cottage living situation on campus is the state-of-the-art, Italian-imported, chrome and teal espresso machine in the kitchen area.

It. Is. Amazing.

A travel mug of three expertly pulled shots of espresso with perfectly frothed coconut milk and a dash of cinnamon is without a doubt, the best way to start a fall Friday in the English countryside. Paired with Phoebe Bridgers on my AirPods? The best.

Or at the very least, the best way to clear your head of a night-full of wolf dreams.

Sort of. Maybe. Hopefully, at least.

But with the storm of last night gone, the sun is shining. The rolling countryside outside the stone and ivy walls of Oxford Hills is looking gorgeous and green. And the campus itself looks like old cathedral and castle it used to be.

I’m smiling ear-to-ear as I walk through the grounds. One, because it’s gorgeous outside. Two, because my coconut milk latte is delicious. And three, because I’m on my way directly to the student services to cut myself completely loose of Ilya fucking Volkov.

It’s going to be a very, very good day.

I almost spitespresso and coconut milk across the counter when she says that horrible word again.

“Excuse me?”

The head of student services, a sturdy, grey-haired woman named Claudette, purses her magenta-hued lips.

“I’m sorry, love, but the answer is no.”

No. Two stupid little insignificant letters stuck halfway through the goddamn alphabet. And yet right now, stuck together, they have the power to ruin my plans. And my day. And even my freaking latte.

“Look, I’m not looking to leave the tutoring program, I just…” I swallow. “I won’t be tutoring him.”

Claudette looks wounded. “Well, I’m so sorry, Miss Chambers, but that just isn’t how it’s done. In keeping with our inclusive and welcoming foundations here at Oxford Hills…”

I want to roll my eyes. “Inclusive and welcoming?” Yeah, sure, if you’ve got a king’s ransom for tuition every year, and your parents either wear a crown or have a historical monument named after them.

“All students are granted the right to seek academic help in their endeavor for greatness, here.”

My mouth thins. “And I completely agree. I just don’t think we’re the right… match,” I say tightly. “It’s a matter of clashing personalities.”

As in, I’m a regular, normal, good person with a soul and a moral compass. And he’s the devil himself, in all his foul-mouthed, hedonistic, psychotic glory.

When Claudette looks unmoved, I switch tactics to a pleading tone.

“Please? Please. Look, surely you’ve heard of his reputation or had the unfortunate experience of meeting him, right? He’s an awful, horrible, spoiled little—”

“That will be quite enough, Miss Chambers,” Claudette snaps coldly. She glares at me like a disappointed grandmother.

“I am very sorry that our tutoring program is more of a challenge to you than you were expected. I’ve seen it before; students thinking this is an easy way to pad their resume.”

I stare at her, heat rising in my cheeks.

“That is not what I’m saying—”

“But I will not stand here and allow this character assassination of one of our finest and brightest. Do I make myself clear, Miss Chambers?” She says sharply, glaring at me over the horn-rims of her glasses.

The fight deflates out of me. So does hope, and a little of my dignity, having just begged for nothing. I nod.

“My apologies,” I mumble, forcing the word out.

“Mr. Volkov is one of our highest achieving students. He hit a bit of a dip in the road last term and just needs some assistance from one of his peers correcting course. If you feel as though you’re not cut out to be that assistance—”

I grit my teeth.

“Then you are welcomed to drop from the program. Though, per our student guidelines, that will be reflected on your record. The choice is yours, Miss. Chambers.”

My brow hoods with anger at how unfair this is. But I nod glumly.

“Okay, okay. No, I won’t be dropping from the program.”

“Then is there anything else I can help you with?” She smiles.

I shake my head. “No, thank—”

I start to turn away when suddenly the office lights glitter off something—something hanging from a silver chain around her neck. I frown as I peer at it. A chill creeps up my spine.

It’s a silver pendant, in the shape of a wolf’s head, with glittering diamond eyes.

Mother. Fucker.

Anger conquers fear.Or at least, clouds it enough to temporarily forget about it. I storm across campus muttering and cursing his name, until once again, I’m standing at the big iron gate to his evil lair.

Without the dark clouds and driving rain, Lordship Manor actually looks quite pretty and calmingly charming. Ivy and flowers creep up the sides of a stone house straight out of a Jane Austin book.

I step through the gate into a manicured, stunning English-style garden that takes my breath away. In my head, Ilya’s lair—not home—was a foreboding haunted castle; the grounds festooned with the bones of his prey.

Apparently, I missed the roses, blue-stone and white gravel pathways, and intricately trimmed hedges in the chaos of that first meeting.

But I pull my eyes away from the beauty of the garden surrounding Lordship Manor. I glare at the door—the scene of the crime yesterday. But this time, I don’t run. I don’t flee. This time, I set my jaw and march right up to it.

One year. I have one goddamn year here before the next phase of The Plan. And I will not—not—let smug, psychotic little criminals like Ilya Volkov fuck this up for me.

I pause for one more breath at the door before I raise my fist. Then, I start pounding; hard. I hammer at the damn door until I hear footsteps thudding towards it from the other side. The knob twists, and the huge wooden thing swings in.

A tall, muscled and handsome guy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes stares at me curiously. Heavy tattoo ink swirls down both arms from under the stretched sleeves of his t-shirt, all the way to his knuckles. More ink teases up his neck to his jaw.

He smirks at me as his eyes feast on me like a snack. I shiver.

“You’re late,” he grunts in a slightly Russian-accented voice.

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“The party was last night, sweetheart,” he purrs. He leans against the doorway, still smirking at me. “But I don’t see why you and I can’t start a new one of our own—”

“Is Ilya here?” I snap, cutting off the eye-rolling smooth talk.

“He might be.”

I groan, glaring at him. “Can I see him?”

“I didn’t say he was here. I said he might be.” He frowns. “What do you want with Volkov?”

Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. I want to be free of him. I want to never see him or this ridiculous “manor” ever again.

“I need to speak with him. It’s important,” I grate out.

“You pregnant?”

My face burns as I stare at him. “What?”

“That what you want to see him about?”

My nose wrinkles. “Eww! No!”

“So, you’re not pregnant.”

“No.”

His lips curl. “Wanna be?”

My hands curl to fists at my sides. “Is he fucking here or not?!” I bark, loud enough that even this smug asshole seems to jolt in surprise.

But then he catches himself and clears his throat. His arms fold over his muscled chest.

“Alright, calm down, sweetheart. He’s upstairs.” He steps aside and nods at an elegant staircase. “Down the left hallway, last door at the end.”

“Thank you,” I hiss as I slip past him, into the manor.

Or lair.

There was a raging party here yesterday. This morning, it looks immaculate. The manor looks like something out of Architectural Digest—modern and yet old-world elegant. Sleek but sumptuous.

Impressionist and modern art hangs on the walls. There’s a grand piano in the enormous, vaulted-ceiling living room. My eyes bulge with envy when I catch sight of a gleaming and pristine looking swimming pool through the open French doors at the back of the house.

What the fuck.

“Want a tour?”

I glance back at the tattooed guy with the hungry smile.

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

He grins. “Left hall, last door at the end. Knock first.”

When my brow furrows in puzzlement, his smile widens.

“He might have company.”

My stomach turns as my nose wrinkles. I turn without another word and storm up the stairs. I turn left and march down the long hallway until I get to a big, imposing old-wood and iron door, not unlike the one on the front entrance.

I swallow, take a breath, and rap my knuckles on it.

There’s no response. I scowl as I hammer my fist against it again, harder this time. I hear footsteps—slow, languid, unhurried ones. I rap once more and hear a low growl. The doorknob turns, and the door swings open.

My face flushes.

He’s shirtless. Good lord, does he ever wear shirts? He looms in the doorway, clouded in a darkness that’s almost palpable, glaring down at me with those piercing green eyes. Slowly, his lips curl in a downright savage, hungry grin.

“Well, well, well. You know, Red Riding Hood isn’t supposed to actively seek out the—”

“Did you bribe the student services office?!” I snap angrily.

Ilya’s brows arch, which has the strange effect of making him look both amused and insulted.

“I don’t make bribes.”

Yeah, and I can fly.

“Yes,” I hiss. “You—”

“They’re beneath me.” He draws in a slow breath of air, his muscled, bare chest rising. “I make…” his smile broadens. “Solid arguments.”

“Arguments that come with diamond fucking necklaces?” I snap.

A spark glints in his green eyes as his white teeth flash.

“Oh, now don’t disparage Claudette like that. I think she looks very nice with a little sparkle.”

I purse my lips, shaking my head at him in disgust. “You’re a criminal.”

“The wages they pay staff at an institution like this is what’s criminal.”

I glare at him. He smiles thinly right back.

“Were you in the market for some jewelry of your own, Red?” He growls.

My eyes narrow. So do his. Neither of us blink, like a battle of wills. It’s like facing off a real, live wolf. And a huge part of my brain screams that this is every bit as stupid a move.

But finally, I break away. I tell myself it’s because I’m done here. But the truth is, it’s because I filched first. I blinked. I turned away.

“You know what, Ilya?” I hiss, dragging my eyes back to his. “Play all the stupid games you want. But count me out.” I smile thinly at him. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

I whirl on my heel, hold my head high, and take the first step to march back down the hall.

“Yes, you will.”

My body stiffens. I swallow without turning.

“You will, or you’ll be leaving the prestigious Oxford Hills with a big, black, scorch mark on that pristine, perfect little record of yours.”

My face clouds with rage. My lips curl into a sneer as I whirl on him. But Ilya just holds my gaze, his mouth thin, his eyes molten green fire.

“I’m sure Claudette was good enough to remind you of the details within this fine institution’s guidelines.” He shrugs. “You’re right, Red. You don’t have to play this game. You can leave the tutoring program and leave this school with a completely perfect, airtight record… except for one, glaring little mark, drawing the eye like blood on a white sheet.”

My eyes narrow at him. “I’ll fight that.”

“Please be my guest,” he growls. “Perhaps if your family was my family, you could have them look the other way, or clean that little spot of blood right up.”

“You mean bribe them,” I snap.

“Yes, I do.” His gaze burns into me hotly. “But not your family. Not your father. So, Little Red—”

“I have a name—”

“Be here Monday afternoon at three-thirty for our first session.”

Rage burns inside of me as I glare at him. “I’m not your servant—”

I gasp as he suddenly storms from his bedroom door and quickly closes the space between us. His big hands grab my wrist, turning me and slamming me against the wall of the hallway hard enough for the framed black and white landscape photographs to rattle.

My heart crawls into my throat. My skin prickles and tingles—all over, but concentrated on where his big, firm grip is holding me. My pulse thuds like a drum in my ear as he leans close, cold anger on his face.

“I don’t think you realize where you are,” he growls thickly.

I swallow. I know I should just do what he says, just nod until he lets me go. Like a cat getting tired of playing with the mouse. But I’m not built that way. I’m not built to roll over and say yes please.

“You don’t own Oxford—”

“Yes,” he snarls. His lips curl into a frightening smile, inches from my face. “I do, actually.”

My head shakes slowly. “I’m not your serv—”

“You’ll be whatever the fuck I want you to be,” Ilya hisses thickly.

He’s so close. I can feel the heat from his bare chest radiating against me. I can feel the thud of his own pulse through his fingers against my skin. And I can smell the intoxicating scent of him—tobacco and leather and something so masculine and captivating.

He’s a black pool, and I’m drowning in him.

“I—” I hate that my voice breaks. “I have a boyfriend.”

He grins. He just grins a smug, amused smile.

“Of course you do.”

“He’s…” my throat closes as I try and swallow back a lump. “He’s very powerful, and strong—”

“Does it look like I give a single fuck about a little shit like Patrick North?” I gasp as Ilya suddenly leans close to me, fast. For a moment, every synapse in my head screams that he’s about to kiss me. But instead, his mouth brushes right past my cheek by millimeters, until it’s right by my ear.

His breath teases my skin. My eyes close, and my teeth clamp down hard on my lip. A shameful heat I do not want blooms deep in my core, clawing at my insides like tendrils of fire.

“Monday,” Ilya growls into my ear. “You, here. And if you’re not, I will come find you.”

He pulls away. His hands drop from my wrists. The blood comes rushing back into my fingers as I blush hotly and step away from him.

His eyes hold mine, little flickers of green fire sparking through the air between us. Then, without another word, he turns and walks back to his room, shutting the door behind him.

The tattooed guyfrom before is nowhere to be found—though it’s not like I’m looking, either. So I let myself out. I frown as I glance up at the sky. I was only inside for a handful of minutes. But the sun is already gone as dark rainclouds crowd across the sky.

It could be the famously finicky English weather.

Or it’s Ilya Volkov, and the swirling darkness that surrounds him.

When it starts to pour on me when I’m halfway home, I decide to believe it’s the second.