Devon James
I stood at the podium, a thousand eyes pinned to my every move. The weight of nations on my shoulders. And not one of them, not one, could hear the wolf pacing beneath my skin.
The cameras were live. The air was thick. The silence... electric.
Then I began.
"My fellow Astrians… and to those watching beyond our borders… let me speak plainly."
My voice echoed off the high-arched ceiling of the Presidential Press Hall—measured, unwavering, deliberate.
"There's been speculation in recent days. Whispers that seek to drown truth in the noise of fear. Leaked footage. Edited fabrications. Baseless rumours claiming I am… unwell. That I am not who I was. That I am—" dead, my mind filled in, "—not fit to lead."
I paused, letting the words settle. The air pulsed with tension.
"I want to be clear: these claims are false. I am alive. I am standing before you. I have never—not once—used narcotics or illegal suppressants. And I will not entertain wild conspiracies spread by cowards hiding behind screens."
A slight flicker of movement in the press pool—murmurs, shifting pens, discomfort. I pressed forward.
"The footage you've seen—heavily manipulated. The collapse? An exhaustion spell cast by long hours, by unrelenting pressure, and by my refusal to rest when the world needed answers."
I leaned in slightly. My voice dipped.
"But let this also be heard: to those working tirelessly to undermine this administration… your efforts are noted. You may whisper in corridors and edit your lies into shaky recordings, but you forget one thing—I am not afraid of shadows."
Silence.
"I earned this seat in blood, in battle, and sacrifice. I will not surrender it to rumour or rebellion. I am your President. And I will fight for this nation with everything I am—until the last breath leaves my body."
A long, cold silence followed.
Then a single clap. Then two. Then all at once, the hall broke into restrained but rising applause—some genuine, some forced, some cautious.
But it didn't matter. I had said what needed to be said.
Then came the questions.
Hands shot up like blades.
I scanned them slowly, deliberately, until my eyes landed on a petite woman in a burgundy blazer. Her face was composed, professional. But her eyes—sharp.
I nodded.
She stood. "Thank you, Mr. President. My name is Leya Trant, Astrian Herald Publications."
A pause.
Then her question.
"There have been… startling claims, sir. Not just about drugs or fainting spells, but about an affair. With an aide. And a leaked video, sir. One that—allegedly—shows you… dead… and then revived. Some believe this is evidence of occult rituals, or worse. Can you explain that to the public? And assure us… this presidency remains truly human, truly stable?"
The words hit like a stone.
My breath hitched. Just slightly. A mistake.
The wolf inside me snarled at the implication—inhuman?
I almost missed the moment Jimmie walked in.
But I didn't.
I felt him first. The air shifted.
His scent—smoke and something clean, green. Sharp. It filled the damn hall like a storm.
I looked up. There he was. Standing by the exit. Head bowed, hands behind his back. Those green eyes locked onto mine, and something in me… exhaled.
The tension in my chest loosened. Just slightly. Steady, I told myself.
"Mr. President?" Leya said again.
I blinked.
"Yes," I replied, voice even again. "Let me be clear."
I straightened. Professional. Controlled.
"I am not having an affair. I have not died. The video in question is doctored, spliced from internal footage, and fed through the rumour mill for one reason only: to destabilise this administration. And I must say—" my voice darkened, "—if resilience is now mistaken for inhumanity, then perhaps our standards of leadership have fallen too low."
She tried to speak again, but I cut her off.
"That is all I will say on the matter. Truth has been spoken. Conspiracy is not policy."
Franco stepped forward. "One last question before we conclude."
A tall man stood on the far side. Crisp suit. Diplomatic posture.
"Mr. President," he said, "I'm Henry Malcus from The Global Standard. There's concern from foreign leaders about the continuity of your leadership, especially ahead of the Varshava Summit. What assurances can you give the international community?"
I inhaled slowly.
"My leadership is uninterrupted. My goals, unchanged. The summit will proceed, and this administration remains committed to the stability, strength, and future of Astria and its allies."
I stood.
There was a small outcry—hands still raised, journalists protesting.
"Mr. President! Just one more!"
But I had already turned.
I glanced at Jimmie. A subtle look. One only he would understand.
He dipped his head slightly, eyes following me until I disappeared behind the closing doors.
Back in my office, I paced. My hands folded behind my back, jaw tight.
I didn't have long to wait.
The scent arrived first, stronger this time. Closer. Alive in the air like it belonged to the room itself.
The door opened, and Jimmie stepped inside.
He stood near the frame. Not daring to move closer.
"Mr. President. You requested to see me?"
My wolf stirred. Loud now. Wanting.
But I... I wanted sedation. Stillness. I wanted the ache to stop.
"It's Devon to you," I said softly, "when we're alone."
Jimmie's throat bobbed. He nodded, cautious. "You… called for me?"
"I did." I walked toward him. "You're late."
"I came as soon as I could. Your wife… she—" he trailed off, uneasy. "I was held up."
"It's okay," I said, closing the distance between us. Just a step.
He moved back. Reflex.
Something about the way his body tensed—nervous, unsure, innocent—only made my wolf lean closer to the surface.
I took another step.
Jimmie was backed up now. To the wall. Breathing faster.
"What are you doing, Devon?" he asked, voice breathy.
I leaned in, near his neck. Close enough to taste the pulse hammering there.
"What am I doing, Jimmie?" I whispered, inhaling. "I'm trying not to lose my mind."
"You shouldn't be doing this. Not here. Not—"
"Not what?" I murmured against his ear. "Not want you?"
I heard the smallest sound—a whimper.
"You're so compelling, Jimmie."
He tried to push me away. I didn't move.
"Don't do that," I growled. "Don't push me away."
"Someone could walk in," he gasped.
"Let them."
He glared. "Let them? Are you insane?"
"Probably," I rasped.
"Please stop this," Jimmie said, low. Cool. Too calm for the fire in his eyes.
That brought me back.
I pulled away. Abruptly. Heat rose in my throat—anger. Shame. Frustration.
"Leave," I said. Cold now. Guarded.
He blinked. "What?"
"Leave."
He hesitated. Hurt flickered in his eyes. But he turned.
At the door, he paused.
"If you keep treating me like this," he said without turning back, "you'll lose me before you ever get to have me."
The door shut before I could speak.
Silence.
I growled. Loud. Feral.
My fist slammed into the edge of the leather sofa. Once. Twice. The pain was a welcome sting.
What was wrong with me?
I told myself I was using him. That he was just a tether. A sedative. A placeholder for the injection I no longer had.
Then why had I liked it?
Why hadn't I stopped?
The landline beeped. My secretary's voice came through, calm as always.
"Sir? There's a lady here to see you."
I exhaled through clenched teeth. "A lady?"
"She claims to be family."
I already knew.
"She says her name is Nadia."
My wolf snarled. So loud it echoed through my skull.
"What does she want?" I snapped. "What could she possibly—?"
"Sir?" she asked, confused. Waiting.
"Send her in," I said darkly.
And may the gods help her if she brought trouble with her.