Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

7

The three of us—Misha,Lukas, and myself—are a polarizing force on Oxford Hills. To some—many, really—we represent “new,” and not in a good way. We’re the harbingers of the doom of the upper class—usurpers who “don’t deserve” to be here, or in the upper echelons of society that we occupy.

They see the danger in our eyes, and the Bratva ink in our skin. They, rightfully, fear us, and what we represent for their cultured, pedigreed little lives.

Yet, to others here, we’re irresistible. Black holes, for better or for worse. We’re the dangling temptation of danger, darkness, and telling your father to go fuck himself—for who knows or cares what—by sleeping with the tattooed son of a mafia king.

Patrick North and his ilk fall into the first category. They’re the type who turn their noses up when we pass them in the halls.

Nothing could insult me less than Patrick North not wanting to be my fucking friend.

The other type are the “fans,” as if we’re a rock band. Girls who want us and guys who want to be us. Groupies, sycophants, hangers-on, and maybe those who are just curious what laying down and looking over the edge into the abyss looks like.

What it mostly looks like here at Oxford Hills is the near non-stop party we’ve been hosting at our manor for the last three days and two nights

The last weekend before term begins, as final years, as the reigning dark kings of Oxford Hills, should be the stuff dreams are made up. It should be wall-to-wall debauchery of the most deprived, twisted kind.

And for some, it is. From Friday night, through to Sunday evening of near constant parties at our manor, I barely see Misha out of his room—perpetually with company, I should add. Even Lukas seems to be having fun. I have no goddamn idea if he’s also taking girls back to his room—or who here would even have enough fucked up daddy issues to go with him. But he does disappear nearly as much as Misha.

I should be right there in the thick of it with them. I should be lounging back on my throne, watching my hedonistic court rage and riot before me—a drink in my hand, drugs in my system, and perhaps even a pair of lips wrapped around my cock.

And yet for three days and two nights, I do none of those things but drink. Mostly alone.

I’m sure I’ve given Misha years of material for jokes involving me and emo poetry.

But I don’t care. Just as I don’t care about the girls batting their eyes at me or flashing their tits at me. Or outright asking me to show them my bedroom.

It. Bores. Me.

It disinterests me. Even the allure of the parade of drugs through our home over the weekend seems to have lost its luster.

Yes, it could be that I’m finally wising up. It could be that my uncle’s words have shown me the writing on the wall—that I need to get my shit together and become the man I was meant to become.

It could certainly be all that. Or it could be that a certain red-haired, defiant little thorn in my side has wormed her way under my skin.

It’s a perplexing thought. Actually, every thought involving Tenley Chambers has been perplexing to me since the other day when she stormed in my world for the second time.

First, I told her to stay away. Then I made sure she couldn’t leave. I despise the way she refuses to cow to me, or to bend a knee. But at the same time, that fire and that defiance breeds a fire in me that’s still raging days later.

A fire that’s turned me into a goddamn monk, apparently.

By Sunday night, only the most dedicated—or most likely to have some seriously deep-seated drug and alcohol problems—are still at Lordship Manor. Music still thuds in the big living room and kitchen as I brush through the last of the crowds.

I snag a bottle of vodka and step out of the house through the double French doors into the backyard. There’s not many people out here, even with the draw of the pool. Three guys from the rugby team are hunkered together talking animatedly about… sports, I assume. A girl with large tits is bent over in the hot tub getting fucked from behind by a guy whose name is Sean, or maybe Seamus.

In all honesty, unless they’re useful or close to me, people’s names aren’t something I bother to really learn.

I’m reaching for my silver case of pre-rolls, when my phone buzzes. I glance at it, and my brow goes up. It’s my Uncle Yuri.

I turn to whistle at the three rugby players. A jerk of my head lets them know what I want. They quickly scramble up, nod almost to the point of bowing to me, and make themselves scarce. My gaze turns to the couple in the hot tub.

“Fuck somewhere else,” I bark.

The two of them almost have a heart attack, like they’re somehow shocked that someone’s caught them in the act of screwing in the hot tub at a well-attended party.

“S-sorry, Ilya,” the guy fumbles, trying to cover his dick as he scrambles from the tub. His girl looks at me shyly, biting her lip. She stays in the water as her guy dashes inside with his t-shirt around his waist.

“If I had any remote interest in sloppy seconds, I’m well aware of where Misha’s room is located.”

Her coy smile drops.

“Leave.”

She springs from the tub, averting her eyes from me as she plucks the towel I hold up from my hand. When the yard is empty, I call my uncle back and sink into a chair by the pool.

“Dobryy vecher, nephew,” Yuri grunts in his deep, honeyed voice.

“A good evening to you, too,” I smile.

Contrary to a rumor I once heard around here involving the words “spawn” and “devil”, I did actually at one point have parents. When they died, and were taken from me, Yuri took me in. Not always in with him, of course. He was young, and moving his way up the ladder of the Volkov organization. But he always cared for me. He always made sure I wanted for nothing.

There were times when I lived with him, of course. In Moscow, in Paris, for a small stint in New York. But the time when that wasn’t possible, he made sure I was well taken care of—at private boarding schools or watched over by bratva allies elsewhere.

I smile. There was a summer Misha and I spent almost entirely alone at Uncle Yuri’s hunting lodge near the Black Sea just getting drunk from the wine cellar and shooting off rifles.

He’s been everything to me, and the only blood family I have. Which is why I do actually feel bad for the headaches my bullshit and antics caused him last semester. Regret and feeling bad aren’t emotions I’m very well versed in, either.

“How are you settling in?”

I grin as I sit back in the chair. I bring the vodka to my lips and take a sip.

“Oh, fine. Organizing my schoolbooks and going over my notes from the summer homework.”

Yuri laughs. He’s well aquatinted with my sarcasm.

“If you weren’t so damn smart, I’d have a thing or two to say about your outlook on homework, you know,” he chuckles. “Good to be back with the pack?”

I smile. It’s his name for the trio of Lukas, Misha, and myself.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Good, I’m glad. And I can assume you’re being a perfect gentleman?” He drolls sarcastically. “I won’t be hearing from any angry fathers about their little heartbroken princesses?”

He’s joking, but only by half. There’s still a slight word of warning in his tone.

“As if you weren’t young once?”

He chuckles. “I was young once. But you three take it to another level sometimes, Ilya. I just want to make sure—”

“I’m being good, Uncle.” I frown. “I actually mean that, too.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

In a year, I’ll be at Columbia University, on the fast-track to their business school. And after business school, I’ll be moving into a position as a top avtoritet—a captain—in the Volkov command.

And one day, I will wear the crown my uncle does.

“Are you guys on the boat?”

Yuri’s “boat” is one of the largest, most beautiful, black-colored yachts I’ve ever seen. He and his relatively new wife, my aunt River, own homes all over the place. But that yacht tends to be their primary residence most of the time.

“Chicago, actually,” Yuri grunts. “Just a quick visit. River had a shoot for Dior, and I had business to attend to with Viktor.”

Viktor as in Viktor Komarov, Lukas’s adoptive father. And Dior as in, well, Dior. The fashion brand. My aunt River is River Finn—the River Finn.

To some guys, having a world-famous fashion and lingerie model for an aunt would mean for an endless slew of crude jokes at school.

I am not some guys, though.

One guy—exactly one guy made one dumb fucking crack about jerking off to my Aunt River. She and Yuri—who’s twice her age—had just gotten married, and it was my freshman year at Oxford. The kid who made the crack was a final year—the son of a Swedish Duke or some shit.

I broke his jaw and his arm, and he never came back to school. The jokes and crude comments about my aunt went silent after that.

Behind me, a group of guys and girls spill out onto the patio in various states of undress. They’re wasted, and one of the guys yells something about skinny dipping. I glare daggers at them until they realize who’s already out here. The giggling and laughing drops faster than panties in Misha’s room before they make themselves scarce.

“Ilya,” Yuri growls with a warning tone.

“I’m wearing pants, if you’re curious.”

He sighs.

“I’m being good, Uncle.”

“You’ve been drinking, though. I’ve heard it in your voice since you called.”

“I’m eighteen.”

He sighs again. “Look, Ilya—”

“I’m not going to let you down, Yuri,” I grunt, gritting my teeth. “Last term won’t be repeated. I’ve got my eyes where they need to be, trust me.”

He’s silent for a moment. But then I hear him sigh. “I know that. And I know you’re on the right path.”

He clears his throat.

“Which is actually one of the reasons why I called. I have something I need you to do for me.”

My brow arches. “I’m listening.”

“There’s a potential storm brewing, for the organization, I mean. Politics is a mercurial game… you’ll learn this more than most the higher you get in the command of things.”

I nod, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about one of your American classmates—one with a certain senator for a father.”

I roll my eyes. “North.”

“Yes.”

“If you’re asking me to hurt him, you don’t need to say please.”

Yuri chuckles, but then he sighs heavily. “His father is a powerful man, Ilya. And sooner than later, he’s going to become very powerful.”

“You mean if he becomes President.”

“It’s not looking like an ‘if’ anymore. Almost every poll out there puts him miles beyond anyone the opposing party can put up. It’s not an if, it’s a when. Your classmate might be an arrogant prick. But his father is going to be President someday soon.”

I nod, frowning at the setting sun as I drink from the vodka.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Senator North has some…” Yuri swears in Russian. “Some bold ideas about cracking down on certain… business interests that involve our organization. All Bratva organizations, actually.”

My jaw tightens.

“It would be good to have eyes and ears on someone close to Senator North. Someone who might inadvertently spill some information that could be used to… influence him in his misguided views on our business ventures.”

I groan. I know what he’s asking. He wants me to chum up to Patrick on the chance I might learn something that my uncle can use as leverage on Patrick’s father.

My nose wrinkles in distaste. “You want me to be friends with Patrick fucking North?”

I close my eyes and slug back the bottle of vodka. The list of things I would rather do than make friends with that piece of shit is… extensive.

“No.”

I pull back the bottle and frown. “What?”

“No, I don’t. It’s too obvious, and besides, it’s well documented that you and Patrick despise each other.”

My brow furrows. “So what are you asking, then?” I bring the bottle to my lips for another drink.

“I don’t want you close to Patrick. I want you close to his girlfriend.”

I almost spit out my drink. My heart clenches along with my jaw. My eyes narrow.

“Tenley Chambers. You might not have met her yet—”

“We’ve met,” I say icily.

“Ahh, good. Then you know who she is, and who her father is.”

I nod in stunned silence.

“I’m sure the relationship thing is some PR stunt for the American press. But either way, she’s close to Patrick, which puts her close to his father. And her’s for that matter. If George North turns out to be a goddamn Boy Scout, we’ll look to influence Secretary Chambers, instead.”

My eyes narrow as the sun sets over the rolling English hills surrounding the academy campus.

“Keep an eye on Tenley, Ilya. Get close to her if you can.” He clears his throat. “However you can.”

My jaw ticks.

“I don’t relish asking you to do this, nephew,” he says quietly. “But I do need you to do this. For the family. For your empire.”

I take another drink.

“Consider it done,” I growl as the vodka burns down my throat. “Not a problem at all, uncle.”

He sighs. “Good. That’s good. Thank you. Listen, I have to run into this meeting, but let’s touch base soon?”

I nod. “Sounds good.” My voice is smiling. My face is not. “Hi to River for me. And Mr. Komarov.”

“Of course. Take care, Ilya. Try to have a little fun, yeah?”

When I hang up, I exhale slowly. I sink back into the chair, staring into the now-darkness.

I told her to run. Then I made sure she couldn’t. Now, I will bind her to me.