Savage Heir by Jagger Cole

8

My shoulders bobin the mirror as I lean close to smudge on a little eyeliner. I’ve got HAIM’s Gasoline—my current anthem of the moment—rocking on a bluetooth speaker. When I pull back, my eyes sweep over my outfit, and I grin.

Perfect.

Okay, it’s not like it took a lot of thought to put it together. It’s a uniform, and it looks literally identical to every other girl at Oxford Hill—green, black, and gold tartan skirt, white, short-sleeved blouse, black flats. The black jacket with green and gold trim and the golden Oxford Hills crest on the chest is optional, but I’m wearing it because of course I am.

School uniforms, even if I’ve never worn one before, are like Plans; there’s no reason to do them half-assedly.

I reach up with a last pin, sliding it into my hair and smoothing a hand over the tight bun at the back of my head. Perfect. My eyes drop to my face. When I meet my own eyes, I can’t help but bite my own lip.

Wearing a uniform is new. So is wearing eyeliner to school. I scowl at the little voice of doubt that creeps up into my subconscious, asking why I’m wearing makeup.

Asking who I’m wearing it for.

But I stamp that down quickly. I’m wearing eye liner because this is a prestigious, formal institution. I’m wearing it because my dad’s head of PR, Jill, recommended I start wearing it to look “sophisticated.”

So, no. My wearing makeup has nothing to do with the cretin who laid hands on me, pushed me into a wall, and let his words rumble through my ears. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’ll be going back to his lair after classes today to tutor him against my will.

And it has fuck-all to do with the dreams of howling wolves, curling smoke, and Russian tattoos that danced through my head for the last three fucking nights.

The HAIM song gets to the bridge section. The sultry lyric that mentions “when you’re lying between my legs, it doesn’t really matter” purrs from the bluetooth speaker, and I blush.

Howling animals, tattoo ink, and marijuana smoke was unfortunately not the extent of the content of my dreams this last weekend.

My face burns fiercely as I reach for my phone. I quickly jab my finger at the screen, moving to the next track on my “First Day Of School” playlist. Which is of course, The Last Man On Earth, by the band Wolf Alice.

WolfAlice.

Oh fuck off, universe.

I shiver as I angrily press the pause button. Okay, maybe no first day of school playlist after all.

I skim my hair one more time. A quick once-over with a lint-roller later, and I’m shouldering my bag of color-coded notebooks with their corresponding pens and walking out the door.

Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? Not this chick.

By the timemy first class is over, I’ve long forgotten the shadow howling in my dreams. Oxford Hills might be full of spoiled rich kids, but they’re all really smart spoiled rich kids. The classes are challenging enough to keep me fully engrossed. The professors are tops of their fields or have been poached from tenured positions at some of the best universities in the world.

In short, it’s heaven.

I even skip lunch to sit in on an astronomy lecture by a man who literally holds a Nobel Prize for his work on quantum string theory. Because, why not?

When I see poor Lain trying to get my attention from the doorway, though, I roll my eyes and remember that I haven’t let Patrick know that I’m missing lunch. I send him a quick text and then immerse myself back in the lecture.

The rest of the day passes in a heavenly blur of knowledge and drinking it all in. It’s not until I step out into the late afternoon sun after my last class that reality remembers to bite me in the ass. Just to let me know it’s still there.

I groan when I glance at my phone. It’s three-twenty.

I’m tutoring Ilya in ten minutes.

I wince at the thought of going back there. But I have to. He’s not wrong about the bylines of the student guide concerning dropping the tutoring program. I checked over the weekend, and it’s there in black and white: I can’t transfer students. I can only drop the program. And if I do, it shows up on my record just like a dropped course would and looks just as staining.

There’s no getting out of this. Like it or not—or rather, hate it or hate it, I have to go back there. Or else.

I start to slip my headphones in as I turn… and slam right into a firm chest.

“Shit!” I gasp, jolting back as my heart leaps into my throat. I drag my eyes up Patrick’s broad frame into frowning blue eyes. They seem to narrow even deeper at my swear.

“Where were you?” he growls.

I blink, trying to slow my heart and catch my breath.

“What?”

“At lunch. We were supposed to meet.”

I knit my brows. “We were?”

He sighs. “I had Susan sync my schedule to yours over the weekend.”

The wheels turn, but I’m still searching.

“Susan?”

“One of my interns?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Right, her. Yeah, I saw the email yesterday with the calendar link. Sorry, I forgot to sync mine.”

I didn’t “forget” to. I thought it was weird that I was expected to do that at all. So, I didn’t.

Patrick frowns. “It’s best to keep ahead of things here, Tenley. I know it can overwhelming, but if you let things slide, you’ll get left behind.”

I ignore that last part.

“Lain found me, by the—”

“I know.”

I purse my lips. “I texted you about missing lunch. There was this really interesting lecture by Professor Llewellyn that just seemed really fascinating. Did you know he shares a Nobel Prize for—”

“Quantum string theory. Yeah, he’s incredible.”

Patrick grins at me, and I feel my face flush. He can be over-bearing at times, and a little condescending other times. But Patrick is still a very nice guy. And he’s very charming, and not exactly hard on the eyes: blond hair, blue eyes, and that Kansas farm-boy chin that made his father perfect for politics.

He reaches up, and I swallow when his thumb brushes over my jawline.

“I was just looking forward to hearing about your first day over lunch. That’s all.”

I smile. “Sorry. Tomorrow?”

“I’d like that.” He winks at me. “I’d like dinner tonight, too.”

I smile again, but it’s a little more strained. Though I’d rather spend my mealtimes with Charlotte, she’s been engrossed with all of the “royalty schooling”—or as I like to call them “crown classes”—after regular class gets out every day. It’s exactly what it sounds like: virtual and sometimes in-person classes to “catch her up” to what being royalty is all about. Char hates it.

So instead, I’ve been eating dinner almost every night with Patrick and his crew of the elites-of-the-elites. Most of them are nice enough people. They’re just… stiff. And very, very snobby.

Some more than others, I think, remembering Ainsley’s smirking face two nights ago when she asked me how I’d managed to reach eighteen without ever having been to Paris. I had to swallow half my shepherd’s pie to resist mentioning that jet-setting is a little tougher when you don’t own a jet.

“Uh, yeah… yeah, that would be great.”

He nods. “Excellent.” His hand comes up, raking his fingers through his blond hair. “I was going to go play a little tennis with Yoon before dinner. We could rustle up Ainsley and make it a doubles match if you were interested?”

I smile while thinking that I would rather chew rocks.

“Oh, I’m fine, but thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

Fuck yes.

Patrick smiles. “You could come watch.”

“Yeah, maybe-”

Shit. Tutoring. I yank my phone out and wince. It’s three-twenty-nine.

“You know what?” I blurt at Patrick as I shoulder my bag and turn. “I actually have to run to—”

I freeze. My lips tighten.

“This thing.”

He frowns. “What thing?”

“Uh, a study prep thing for this… class.”

I don’t know why I’m lying. Maybe it’s because Patrick told me he didn’t want me tutoring, and I feel guilty that I’m still doing it? No, that’s not it. I wonder if it’s that I feel like a failure for not being able to get out of it when I was so firm that I would.

Or maybe it’s the same horrible little feeling deep inside that conned me into wearing eyeliner today.

“Tenley—”

“I gotta run! Bye!”

I turn, and I bolt across campus, heart racing. I want to say it’s from the fear of being late.

I really, really want to say that.

I’m just not sure if it’s true.

“You’re late.”

His voice grinds, his green eyes narrowed at me as I stand there huffing in the front doorway to his manor.

“Sorry, I had class.”

He eyes me, his arms spread wide with his fingers holding the doorframe, like he’s blocking my entrance.

“You went to the office again to try and get out of this.”

I scowl. Claudette, you little snitch.

Ilya smiles at the discomfort on my face. “Don’t push me, Red. You know this works both ways, right?”

I frown. “What?”

“If you quit—”

“Yeah, permanent record mark, I know.”

“I can also fire you.”

My body stiffens. “Excuse me, what?” I shiver. “No, you can’t.”

“I can. If you’re not adequately helping me with…” he smiles thinly. “My academic endeavors, or, say…” his eyes narrow. “If you’re late…”

“Look, I’m sorry I was late, okay?” I snap quickly. “It was my first day of classes, I got lost.”

He arches a brow, unsmiling. “You seemed to manage to find this place twice before just fine.”

My mouth thins as I glare at him.

“Say it.”

My eyes narrow further. “Say what, Ilya.”

“Ask me not to fire you.”

Redness seeps into my face as I stare at him. “You’re joking.”

He shrugs. “Say it, or you’re fired.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Okay, enjoy the black spot on that lily-white permanent rec—”

I jab my foot out, stopping him as he steps back and starts to close the door.

“Hang on!” I blurt, my voice panicky.

Ilya smirks at me, making me furious.

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he grunts. “You do.” A smile teases his lips. “With being on time.”

“C’mon, Ilya…”

“Just say it,” he shrugs. “Nicely.”

I stare at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a psycho?”

His face darkens. “At least I have manners, and know when to be on fucking time,” he snaps.

His expression is neutral and impassive. His body blocks the doorway. And I know right there that this is a not a battle of wills I will win. Sometimes, you have to pick your battles. And getting a “dropped course” mark on my record because Ilya is a power-hungry asshole is not the hill I plan on dying on.

“Fine,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Ilya?” I growl. “Don’t fire me.”

His lip curls into a half-smile, half-sneer. “Was there a please in there I missed?”

I roll my eyes, my jaw grinding. I want to smack him in the face and storm off. But he sees that. I know he sees that when his eyes pierce into me.

“Uh-uh, Tenley,” he growls quietly. “I know it’s tempting. But think of the big picture. Wouldn’t it be easier to just play nice?”

I look away. My hand closes to a fist. But then, I breathe, slowly. I turn back to Ilya, exhaling the tension as best I can.

“Please, Ilya,” I say thinly. “Don’t fire me.”

He doesn’t smile. But he still manages to look downright triumphant.

“So, can we do this now?”

His eyes sparkle deviously.

“Sure. Outside, or in my room?”

I glare at him. “Hilarious,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “I thought you wanted to fuck me that day.”

“Yeah, gathered that,” I hiss. “Believe me when I say nothing could be more untrue.”

He stands there, brooding, eyeing me.

“Well? Can I come in?”

He doesn’t say a word. But slowly, he drops his arms from the doorframe and steps back.

“Conditionally.”

I knit my brows. “What are the conditions?”

“You were late.”

“I’ve already apologized—”

“I don’t want this to become a habit, Tenley. I really don’t. And I’d hate to have to let you go for not being able to be the educational assistance I so desperately need.”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ, Ilya.”

“To motivate you to be on time, there’s a new rule.”

I shake my head, looking away.

“For every ten minutes of my time you waste, you will lose one piece of clothing before you enter this house.”

My head whips around so fast that my neck hurts. I stare at him incredulously.

“You’re more of a lunatic than everyone says you are if you think that’s happening.”

He shrugs. “House rules.”

“Sounds like your rules.”

“They’re the same thing,” he growls. “And let me assure you, they are non-negotiable. You were twelve minutes late today. I’m feeling generous, so we’ll round down and not up. That’s one ten-minute block, so you owe me one piece of clothing.”

My heart thuds as I lock eyes with him. He stares right back, with neither of us blinking. The seconds tick by, and I swear you can almost feel the battle of wills crackling in the air between us.

But the deck is stacked. Like all things here at this school. The powerful hold the best cards. And Ilya is the most powerful of them all.

“Fine,” I spit venomously. I keep my eyes locked on him as I reach down and bring a foot up. I slip off one of my flats. My smile is thin and cold as I hold the shoe up by one fingertip.

“Happy?” I hiss thinly.

“Thrilled.”

He steps away from the doorway and ushers me in. When the door shuts behind me, I shiver as I turn to him, suddenly more afraid that I’ve been allowing myself to feel.

I turn to eye him warily. “Is anyone else here?”

“No.”

My gut tenses.

“I—I’m not going to your room,” I say tersely.

His eyes narrow on me. And again, like before, this time it feels like The Wolf himself is sizing me up; wondering how best to devour me.

He shrugs. “The vodka is down here in the kitchen anyway.”

He brushes past me without another word. My head snaps around to follow him as he walks through the lavish home into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, what?”