All Chapters of The President's Mate: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Devon’s POVIt had been a strange morning. The kind where the walls felt like they were pressing in, like the air in the room was thinner than it should be. I’d buried myself in numbers, policies, and speeches, trying to push the pounding inside my head down… down where the beast couldn’t reach.But he was there, stirring. Growling softly under my skin like a threat or a warning. Always present now.I was halfway through editing Eleanor’s statement for next week’s UN envoy when the door burst open without a knock.Marcy.My secretary, usually calm, composed, and robotic in her efficiency, looked like she’d run through a hurricane. Her blonde hair was slightly undone from its perfect bun, strands clinging to her temples. She held a tablet in her hands like it might explode.Franco came in right behind her. Broad, ever-silent Franco… but today, his jaw was tight, his face unreadable in a way that made my gut twist.I sat up straighter behind the desk, trying to rein in the beast that r

Devon’s I stopped going to the morning briefings. Skipped the infrastructure meeting. Dodged the delegation from Sylverin. I even sent Franco in my place to meet with the Senate Majority Leader, a move so out of protocol it had half the cabinet buzzing by the afternoon. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. Not when I could feel my wolf clawing beneath my skin. Not when I could feel him watching Jimmie. Waiting. Craving. Every time I caught the scent of Jimmie’s cologne—faint but stubborn—it felt like my ribs were being pried open. He’d been avoiding me, keeping his distance like he was afraid to breathe the same air. Smart. Maybe even necessary. I’d been barely holding it together since that hallway incident. Hell, I’m not even sure how I managed to stop myself from kissing him. Marking him. Taking him. And now? My wolf was snarling inside me day and night, pacing, raging at the leash I could no longer tighten. I’d been proud once, stupidly proud, of my control. Years of

Jimmie’sThe blindfold came off so fast I almost forgot how to blink.For a few seconds, I squinted, disoriented as the dim twilight crept into the room through a narrow, cracked window, barely illuminating the space I was dumped in. A flickering bulb overhead sputtered like it had a vendetta against stability—on, off, a buzz, then dim. Honestly, it was less of a lightbulb and more like a nervous breakdown on a wire.My hands were still tied tightly in front of me, itching, raw, and numb at the same time. The rope was too tight. My wrists were screaming, and I was ninety-nine per cent sure that if I lived through this, I’d develop some dramatic fear of twine. Maybe even yarn. No one warned me that kidnapping came with a whole trauma package and potential knit-phobia.The room—I say “room” loosely—was a glorified storage closet that had given up on life. The walls were concrete, but cracked and damp, as if the building was quietly weeping alongside me. A mouldy pipe dripped steadily fr

Eleanor James They say a leader’s strength is tested in silence—how steady she stands when no one’s clapping, when the room is cold, and the walls whisper doubt. If that’s true, then I’ve been standing through a goddamn blizzard.Every morning, I press my hair back into place, swipe red across my lips, and smile at cameras that don’t care whether my husband is dead or simply… gone.Devon has locked himself away for weeks. I’ve tried to see him. I’ve tried to force his door open with my voice, with my tears. But nothing gets through anymore—not even me.The country is buzzing. “Where is the President?”“Is he sick?”“Is he in rehab?”“Is the First Lady covering up a scandal?”I’ve had to lie more times than I care to count.“He’s taking time to recover from the recent security incident,” I say, cool as crystal, even as I feel my world cracking at the edges.“He’s still briefed daily.”“He’s resting under medical advice.”Bullshit, all of it. Because the truth is, I don’t know where De

Devon JamesEver since Eleanor’s outburst in the study, sleep had become an illusion I could no longer afford. Not because I didn’t want it. But because it simply refused to come. My body would lie in bed, but my mind remained a storm. Awake. Grinding. Gnawing.I was unravelling.Restless.But the strange part was—my wolf wasn’t.At least, not in the way I expected. He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t fighting me to shift or take over. He was still. Quiet. Watching.Agitated, yes. But calm in the way a predator crouches in tall grass, eyes locked on prey. Waiting. Hungry.I’d never seen him like this before—composed, but seething beneath the surface. A quiet madness. Like he was waiting for something… or someone.And I knew exactly what had cracked him open like this.The rejection.From him.Our mate.He called us a monster.Refused us. Denied us.And while I still hadn't said the words out loud, my wolf had heard them through me—Jimmie’s voice echoing in our shared soul. It suffocated him.