Steve's POV
I didn't budge.
I simply stared her down. She exhaled dramatically, pouting her perfectly glossed lips as she leaned in.
Go on, Lisa, I thought. Tell me everything I need to hear. Make letting a girl who would have died for me go worth it.
She opened her mouth, no doubt to say something designed to slice my ego to ribbons. So I did the only thing that reliably shut her up: I crushed my mouth to hers, pinning her against the wall. We didn't make love; we had angry, competitive sex, a battle for dominance where I was determined to win.
Afterward, breathless, she finally gave in. "Okay, Steve… fine. I'll leave Jared. We can be together. For real."
Triumph surged through me. I was about to seal the deal with a victor's kiss when my phone rang. IRA.
My heart did a stupid, hopeful leap. If Lisa had refused, I'd have taken the call, ready to forgive Ira, to let her back in. But now? With victory in my grasp? I couldn't.
I checked the screen. It wasn't her. It was my father.
"Duty calls, love," I said to Lisa, already pulling myself together, the moment thoroughly ruined.
---
"You can't be serious, Father. An aide? A glorified babysitter?" I complained, standing in his opulent office.
"It is a stepping stone, Steven. You will be Prime Minister one day. This is part of the path. Your job is to manage him, keep him in line. It is what the Alpha King wants. Now go. He's waiting outside."
I walked out of the statehouse, my ego bruised and fuming. Instead of celebrating with Lisa, I was to be a handler for Hardy—the pathetic, tongue-tied boy who, until a few weeks ago, could barely look me in the eye. The universe was mocking me.
I scanned the driveway, expecting a timid figure. What I saw made me stop dead.
Leaning against a sinful, canary-yellow sports car was a man who looked like he'd just stepped off a Milan runway.
This couldn't be Hardy. He was wearing a flawlessly tailored white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and navy-blue dress pants that fit him like a dream. On his feet were expensive leather sneakers. But it wasn't the clothes. It was the way he wore them—with a lazy, effortless arrogance that seemed to radiate from him.
He pushed off the car, and a slow, utterly infuriating smile spread across his face. "Oh, hey Stanley. Ready to go?"
He called me Stanley.
"It's Steve," I snapped, my voice tighter than I intended.
He just chuckled, a low, rich sound, and slid into the driver's seat. I yanked the passenger door open and barely got in before he slammed the accelerator. The car roared to life, pinning me to the leather seat as I fumbled desperately for the seatbelt.
"Slow down!" I yelled over the engine's scream.
"Why?" he asked, his tone one of genuine curiosity, as he nudged the speedometer even higher.
"So we don't die a horrific, fiery death! Is that a good enough reason?!"
In response, he stomped on the brake. The force hurled me forward, and my face connected with the dashboard with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded across my nose.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelled, cupping my hands under my face as warm blood trickled through my fingers.
"Hmm," he observed casually, not even looking over. "Your nose is bleeding, Stanley."
"Yeah, no shit! And it's STEVE!"
"Of course. My mistake, Steph," he said, the correction somehow even worse. "I'm supposed to join the Military. Point me to the recruitment center?"
I was about to retort when a glint of metal caught my eye. I squinted through the pain. "Is that… an earring? You have a piercing?"
He turned his head, giving me a full view of the simple, silver hoop in his lobe. A wide, unrepentant grin spread across his face. "It's cool, right?"
"No! It is not 'cool'! Perforations are strictly—"
"—frowned upon. I know," he finished for me, laughing. It wasn't a nervous laugh; it was a full-bodied, joyous sound that filled the car. "Exactly what Grandpa said. Thought the old man was gonna have an aneurysm. Tough bird, though. Anyway, left here?"
He swerved before I could answer, the G-force slamming me against the door. Soon, we screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust at the recruitment center, buses lined up and idling.
He turned to me, the engine still rumbling. "So. Did you pack my bag?"
I blinked. "I am not your valet."
He didn't blink. His gaze, for the first time, was completely serious and utterly unnerving. "No. You're not. You're here to serve at my pleasure. Why else do you think I specifically requested you?"
The implication landed like a punch. My eyes narrowed. "You did this? Is this because of what happened ten years ago?"
"You mean when I, a hungry kid, showed up at the statehouse begging for a scrap of your father's time, hoping he could introduce me to my estranged grandfather who happened to be the Alpha of all Alphas and you had your guards throw me out on my arse and then spat on me?" he clarified, his voice dangerously pleasant.
A cold dread trickled down my spine. "You do hold a grudge."
He chuckled again, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He leaned across the console, his movement fluid and predatory, and adjusted the collar of my shirt with an intimacy that felt like a threat.
"Of course I do, Stan. How could I not? Now, I'm going to need underwear. And toothpaste. The gift shop is there." He pointed to a shabby kiosk. "Tick tock. Time's a-wasting."
Furious, I yanked out my wallet. As I opened it, a small, worn photograph fluttered to the floor between us.
He moved faster than I could, snatching it up. We both stared at it. It was Ira, from the first day I saw her in the bookstore. She was curled in an armchair, completely lost in some cheesy romance novel, a soft, secret smile on her lips. I'd taken it without her knowing.
His entire demeanor shifted. The mocking playfulness vanished, replaced by an intensity that was almost physical. He studied the photo, his thumb gently tracing the edge.
"Who is she?" he asked, his voice quiet, devoid of all its earlier taunting. He wasn't asking me. He was asking the universe.