Chapter 2 In Motion 

Devon James

I stepped back into the party like everything was fine.

Like I hadn’t just stabbed a needle into my thigh to keep the wolf from breaking loose.

The grand presidential ballroom was alight with crystal chandeliers, their golden glow pouring over the sea of Astria’s finest. Politicians in tailored suits, business moguls dripping with old money, celebrities with painted-on smiles—it was all here. Power and beauty, perfectly polished.

A live orchestra played softly from the elevated stage, strings and piano weaving a melody that was elegant but forgettable—background noise for the real game unfolding in every handshake and lingering glance.

Eleanor was already holding court, radiant in her silver gown that caught the light every time she moved. Delicate. Feminine. Exactly what the people adored in their First Lady.

She caught my eye as I approached, her smile never faltering, though I saw the flicker of relief behind it. I gave her a reassuring nod and slipped back into place at her side.

The night blurred into a carousel of faces.

Ambassadors. CEOs. Military brass. They came in waves to shake my hand, to murmur congratulations with thinly veiled agendas behind their teeth.

My security team moved like shadows along the edges, Franco keeping a keen eye on the growing horde of paparazzi angling for the perfect shot.

"No flash photography inside, gentlemen," Franco said through gritted teeth, raising a hand toward one overeager photographer. "Let’s keep it classy tonight."

The man muttered an apology, lowering his camera, though I knew it would be back up the second Franco turned his head.

The music swelled. Champagne flowed like water. Laughter rose high and bright.

For a while, I let myself sink into it—the role, the charm, the practised smile that made me Devon James, Astria's golden president.

And then he came.

Jim Halvorsen.

The man I’d defeated in the election only weeks ago.

A wolf in human skin—not like me, no, but a predator all the same.

He approached with his wife clinging to his arm—a tall woman with sharp features and cold eyes that flicked over Eleanor like she was sizing up a rival at some aristocrat's auction.

Jim wore his defeat well, tailored in midnight blue silk and a grin that showed too many teeth.

"Mr. President," he drawled, his voice slick as oil. "Congratulations to you and the lovely Eleanor. Astria has made its choice."

His gaze lingered just a second too long. "Let’s hope it’s a lasting one."

The words slid out smoothly, wrapped in civility. But I heard the rot underneath.

Hope your reign lasts, Devon. Hope your crown doesn’t slip.

I smiled, sharp and cool. "Thank you, Jim. And I trust you'll enjoy your return to private life. Sometimes, stepping back is the best way to see the bigger picture."

His smile faltered—just a crack, but I saw it.

His wife’s hand tightened on his arm.

Eleanor, ever the diplomat, touched my elbow. "Darling, we have more people to greet."

I caught the cue, inclined my head to Jim. "Enjoy the evening."

We moved on, but I could feel his eyes burning into my back, hot as twin daggers.

Eleanor leaned in, her voice feather-light but edged with steel. "Be careful with that one," she murmured.

I smirked, a dark twist of my lips meant only for her. "There’s nothing I can’t handle."

She flushed a little, biting back a smile. Only Eleanor knew the double edge to my words. Only she knew when my flirtation carried that darker, sharper undercurrent that was part of me.

Part of us.

The night spun on.

More faces, more hands, more praise. All the while, Jim’s stare clung to me like a shadow.

It was fine. I could play this game. I had played it longer and harder than any man in this room.

But beneath my skin, the wolf still paced.

Still restless.

Still waiting.

And deep down, I knew—sooner or later, he’d fight back.

And gods help me when that time comes.

—

 The next morning, I woke sprawled on the massive, custom-made bed that sat like a throne in the centre of our new presidential suite.

The silk sheets tangled around my legs, the weight of the past night pressing down on me even more than the gold-stitched covers.

Officially, I was now the President of Astria.

I wasn’t a billionaire seeking more wealth—that part of my life was long conquered. This wasn’t about money. It never was.

This was about change.

About stepping into the light and proving to those small-minded humans who hunted my kind down that we were more than beasts lurking in shadows.

We were more than creatures wearing human skin.

We could build. We could rule. We could lead.

But the world didn’t know that yet. And maybe… maybe it never would.

I felt it stir beneath my ribs.

My wolf.

Weak, sluggish—drugged still by the injection from last night—but not silent.

Never silent.

I pressed a hand to my bare chest and exhaled slowly. The silver sulfate mixture was still doing its job, keeping him locked in that invisible cage.

But not for long.

And I knew it.

I had a big day ahead. Meetings. Signings. Public appearances. But first—

Eleanor stirred beside me, her body shifting under the sheets.

My eyes flickered to her. My wife.

Mother of my children—Aria, ten, and little Nathaniel, six.

Beautiful, elegant… and oblivious to the war that raged inside me every damn day.

She smiled, soft and sleepy, and my heart did that annoying little flutter it always did when she looked at me like that.

My wolf, on the other hand, snarled.

Low and disapproving.

It never accepted her. Not in sixteen years. Not once.

I almost rolled my eyes. I had tried—God, I had tried—to get the two halves of me to find some kind of peace.

But my wolf remained stubborn, repulsed by Eleanor's presence in a way that twisted guilt deep in my gut.

She didn’t know. She couldn’t.

And it wasn’t her fault.

"Good morning, Mr. President," she whispered with a playful grin, stretching just enough to make the thin satin of her nightgown slide higher up her thigh.

It clung to her—black, lace-edged, dangerously sheer in the morning light.

I groaned under my breath, cupping her face in my palm. "Good morning, my First Lady."

Then I claimed her lips, hungry and rough, because this was how I kept the other part of me caged.

We kissed until it wasn’t enough.

Until she arched into me, and I rolled her onto her back, and the rest of the world dissolved into heat and breath and tangled sheets.

Later, when the storm had passed, Eleanor slid from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her naked body like some victorious goddess.

She shot me a smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the adjoining marble bathroom.

I lay there, catching my breath.

Staring at the ceiling.

And just like always, that emptiness crept in.

That gnawing hole inside me that no amount of love-making could fill.

It wasn’t about her. I loved Eleanor in my way.

But it had never been enough.

Sixteen years, and my wolf still turned away.

Sixteen years, and every time we made love, it felt like I was trying to outrun something just out of reach.

Something I needed.

Something I prayed never to find.

Because finding it would burn this fragile world I’d built to ash.

By the time we sat for breakfast, we were both dressed and polished—me, the President; she, the perfect First Lady.

The presidential dining hall was a masterpiece of clean lines and old money: dark mahogany table, velvet drapes, gold inlays that caught the morning sun.

Eleanor looked every inch the queen she was now—elegant in a cream blouse and tailored skirt, her hair swept back to show off those diamond earrings I’d bought her after Nathaniel was born.

I sat at the opposite end, hands folded, posture straight. Regal, they called it.

I called it survival.

The head chef appeared with a soft, deferential bow. "Your Excellency."

His staff followed, laying out plates of fresh fruit, eggs, croissants still steaming.

I couldn’t help but laugh, low and dry. "That’s going to take some getting used to."

The chef gave a stiff smile and retreated as the maidservants finished their work.

One of them, a petite woman with sharp eyes, turned to Eleanor. "Ma’am, the candidates for the PA position are downstairs. They’re ready when you are."

Eleanor nodded, offering a gracious smile. "Thank you, Yvette. I’ll come down shortly."

I glanced up, raising a brow. "PA?"

She shrugged delicately, cutting into her fruit. "Yes. I was told by your Chief of Staff that I’d be needing a personal assistant now that we’ve officially moved in."

She met my eyes. "Someone to help manage the increased demands. It’s all protocol."

I smirked, standing from my chair and moving toward her. "Good luck with that circus."

Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to her temple. "Pick someone you can trust."

She chuckled softly.

I inhaled near her neck—automatically. And then paused.

"Hmm. New perfume?"

She blinked. "No. Same as always. Why?"

I frowned, straightened. "You smell different this morning."

I shrugged it off before she could press, grabbing my jacket. "Never mind. Probably nothing."

Franco was already waiting at the door when I stepped out.

"Morning, Your Excellency," he greeted, crisp and professional.

"Morning, Franco," I muttered, sliding into the sleek black car that would take me to the Presidential Office for my first full day on duty.

And that’s when it hit me.

The same scent from earlier.

Faint. Barely there. But distinct.

I froze, nose lifting slightly as I inhaled again.

It was… strange.

Not Eleanor. Not anything from the staff.

Something else.

My wolf, weak and drugged, stirred feebly in my chest.

 It whispered.

The word was so soft, I missed it. 

I blinked, shook my head, and forced myself into the car.

"That’s strange,

" I muttered to myself, ignoring the faint tremble in my fingers as the door closed behind me.

I had a government to run.

I had a country to lead.

And I didn’t have time for the strange.