Devon POV
My wolf hadn’t stopped growling since we left the estate.
He was pacing under my skin, agitated, restless, a low rumble sitting in my chest like a coiled storm. Not even the wail of sirens clearing our path through Astria’s golden avenues could drown him out.
We sped through the city like a burning omen. My motorcade, seven black cars before me, five behind, all polished steel and flashing lights. Pedestrians turned to watch us glide past, some raising hands in greeting, some pressing palms reverently to their chests. The President was passing through.
But I wasn’t there, not really. Not when Franco leaned forward from the front seat and reminded me, again, “Sir, you have a press conference at eleven.”
I didn’t respond.
Because none of that mattered. Not the press. Not the
