Jimmie's POV
The ride back home with Eleanor was beyond awkward.
It was suffocating, like being trapped in a velvet coffin. The air between us was thick, silent, weighted, stretched taut over the tension neither of us dared to acknowledge. She sat by the window, her eyes distant, her posture regal yet withdrawn. I sat beside her, hands clasped tightly in my lap, pretending the silence was comfortable when it was anything but.
I had complimented her speech earlier, telling her it was beautifully delivered and heartfelt. And it was— even though I was occupied with my thoughts and that shewolf, Nadia, during most of her speech. She'd stood on that stage in front of thousands and held them captive with her words. A symbol of strength, grace, and purpose. But she hadn't responded. Not even a nod. Just that same quiet, that unreadable expression on her face, like she was a million miles away.
I didn't press. Maybe she needed space. She didn't owe me anything, not an explanation, not a smile, not a word.
And God knows I had my storm brewing inside me.
Nadia.
That twisted, smug, conniving witch. Her words still rang in my head like some dark spell echoing in a cursed hallway.
"I'll be watching, Jimmie Portland."
I swallowed hard at the memory. My heart pounded not with fear exactly, but something more primal. Something colder. A dread that slithered deep into my gut and made me feel hollow.
What the hell was I supposed to do?
Leave Devon?
That wasn't an option.
That can't be an option.
But she'd said before the next full moon.
What does that even mean? What happens then? Why the urgency?
My mind spun, chaos circling like a pack of wolves. And the mole, who the hell was the mole? Nadia claimed she had someone on the inside. Inside where? The presidential house? Devon's office? Eleanor's?
Jesus.
If she could orchestrate my kidnapping without ever showing her face... what else could she do?
What would she do?
I clenched my fists and exhaled sharply, dragging myself from that spiral just in time to notice Eleanor's phone buzzing. She glanced at the screen, her brows twitching just slightly. It was Devon.
Her husband.
My mate.
I hated how those two identities clashed. How they were both true.
She looked at me and silently gestured for me to answer it. I obeyed, unsure why. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just because she asked.
"Hello, sir," I said, voice steady but tight.
There was a silence on the other end before Devon's familiar voice filled my ear.
"Hello, Jimmie."
He paused. "How's Eleanor?"
I glanced at her again. She still hadn't said a word. I nodded slightly. "She's okay. We're on our way back."
Devon hummed in response. "Good. I was just checking in."
His tone was casual, but there was something beneath it. Concern. Maybe love. Maybe something else. I couldn't tell, and I hated that.
"I'll let her know," I said, then ended the call.
"He was just checking in," I told Eleanor.
She nodded. One. Simple. Nod.
That was the most she had offered me all day since her meeting with Jim Halvorsen. Not a word about it. Not a glance. Just this steel silence, like she was holding something in.
And I was holding something back.
When we arrived at the residence, I fell into my usual rhythm, walking beside her, ready to help with whatever she might need before I called it a day. But then I saw it.
The hallway leading to the private terrace had been transformed.
Rose petals lined the floor in a delicate trail, soft lights flickered, and the air smelled faintly of lilies and sandalwood. Staff members bustled around with blushes and knowing smiles, pretending not to look, but failing.
Eleanor's brows furrowed. She turned to me, silently asking the question I didn't have an answer to.
And then he appeared.
Devon. Tall. Impeccable in a tailored midnight haze suit, a bouquet of blue roses in his hand, that damn crooked smile on his face the one that used to melt me. The one that still did.
"Hey, beautiful," he said to Eleanor, placing a soft kiss on her cheek before handing her the bouquet.
She blinked. "Dev…" she said, a breath of confusion and warmth. "What's all this?"
My stomach twisted. That question was mine too, only in a much darker tone. What the hell is this, Devon?
He smiled again, sweet and confident.
"Happy anniversary, babe," he said, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.
"Oh my God…" Eleanor laughed softly, almost shyly. "I forgot…"
He chuckled. "Well, I remembered."
Then he kissed her. Fully. Right there. In front of me.
I blinked hard.
My heart didn't break, it splintered.
I wanted to scream. To shove him. To ask him what the hell that kiss the other night had meant. If anything. If he felt it too. But he didn't even look at me. Not once.
And then he took her hand and led her down the path to the private dinner table set for two, romantic, intimate, perfect. Like a scene from a movie.
I hated how good they looked together.
She leaned into him, kissed his chest, and then kissed his lips again.
I wanted to vomit.
"You're free to leave for the night, Jimmie," Eleanor said, laughing with Devon now. "See you tomorrow."
I couldn't trust my voice, so I bowed slightly and turned away.
Not before glancing at Devon one last time.
Still nothing. No glance. No acknowledgement. Like I was a ghost.
Outside, I was shaking.
With rage. With heartbreak. With shame.
I hated Devon.
I hated this mate bond.
I hated fate.
I hated how much I still wanted him.
And before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone and dialled a number I swore I wouldn't ever again.
It rang once. Twice. Then..
"Hello?" a lazy voice, amused. "Well, well… Jimmie Portland. To what do I owe this surprise?"
I cleared my throat. "Hey, Karl. Are you free tonight?"
There was a pause, then a grin I could hear through the line.
"For you? Always. I've missed you."
I closed my eyes. Tight. Then opened them again.
"Let's meet. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I ended the call and stepped into the waiting car.
And as we pulled away from the gates of the residence, I glanced back once toward the terrace where laughter spilt into the night. Where my mate was smiling. With his wife.
If Devon James wanted to play this game…
Then I sure as hell could too.
And I would.