secret Drak love

It was a rare morning in Devyn Holt’s world — one where silence wasn’t shredded by the buzz of his security team or the grind of luxury tires against polished gravel. The billionaire tech mogul, known more for his sharp mind and colder glare than any trace of warmth, had ditched his usual routine of gym, office, repeat. Today, he wanted peace — raw, untouched, and as far away from glass towers and boardrooms as he could manage. No black cars. No black cats — as his team jokingly called the suited bodyguards that shadowed him. Just a plain black hoodie, dark joggers, and his scarred but powerful frame blending into the early mist of the city outskirts. He jogged through the narrow trails of Glenwood Park, where the trees whispered secrets and the world forgot its obsession with wealth. The trail curved gently, dew clinging to the leaves, and the air tasted of earth, not ambition. He slowed down near an old bench, deciding to take a break before the sun rose higher. That’s when he saw her. Zara. Sitting alone, hair braided loosely to one side, wearing a lavender hoodie with mismatched socks. A worn-out novel rested on her lap, and next to her sat the real culprit of Devyn’s narrowed eyes — a fluffy orange cat, staring back with arrogant indifference. Devyn didn’t like cats. At all. They were unpredictable, entitled, and didn’t give a damn about anyone’s authority — kind of like him, but without the genius. He turned away, but the cat let out a slow, taunting meow. Zara didn’t even flinch. She kept reading, fingers casually playing with the cat’s tail like it was the most natural thing in the world. Something about the scene made him pause. It was too peaceful. Too… untouched. And that annoyed him. He walked closer, not sure why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the stillness that felt like a rebellion. Or maybe, just maybe, it was her complete disregard for the world — and him. “Is that thing even legal here?” he asked, half a growl, motioning to the cat. Zara looked up slowly, her eyes locking with his — hazel, quiet, observant. She blinked once. Then again. “The bench?” she replied. Devyn raised a brow. “No. The furball.” She smiled softly. “You mean Simba? He’s very legal, very spoiled, and very much not your problem.” He huffed and sat at the far end of the bench. “You shouldn’t let it out without a leash. Wild animals roam this area.” Zara chuckled, amused. “I assume you’re one of them?” Devyn’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. Not yet. He noticed her hands were ink-stained. The book in her lap was not just read — it was written in. Notes in the margins, underlines, small doodles. He didn’t know people still read like that. “You live around here?” he asked, voice flat, casual. Zara leaned back, eyes still on her page. “That’s a strange question from a stranger.” “I’m not a stranger,” he replied, tone turning firmer. She looked at him again, amused. “Well, unless you’re secretly my dentist or the pizza guy I ghosted last week, I’m going to stick with stranger.” Devyn almost laughed. Almost. Zara was clearly unaware of who he was, and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. It was… refreshing. No fake smiles. No makeup-cloaked women trying to impress him. No nervous energy. Just her, the cat, and a little sarcasm. “You always hang out in parks this early?” he asked, glancing at Simba, who was now stretching with theatrical boredom. “Only when I need to escape the circus,” she murmured. That got his attention. He shifted slightly, his usual stillness cracking. “What circus?” Zara tilted her head toward the city skyline in the distance. “You know… chaos, noise, expectations. The kind that doesn’t care if you’re tired or happy or real.” Devyn went silent. He knew that circus too well. “You don’t look like someone running from anything,” he said after a beat. She smiled. “Neither do you. But here we are.” Simba suddenly jumped onto Devyn’s lap, shocking them both. The billionaire froze. He hated the idea of cat hair on him. But Simba just sat there, smug and confident, like he owned the moment. Zara gasped. “Wow. He hates strangers. He never does this.” Devyn looked at the cat, then at her. “Figures. He has bad taste.” Zara grinned. “Or excellent instincts.” They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Zara stood, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Well, Simba and I have a poetry reading to get to.” Devyn raised a brow. “Poetry?” “Yeah. I read, he judges. Very strict critic.” She began walking away. Devyn watched her go — not the way men usually watched women, but the way someone watches a mystery just begin to unfold. He didn’t ask for her number. Didn’t offer his name. And yet, something told him they weren’t done. As he jogged back into the woods, the city waiting like a beast behind him, he found his thoughts drifting back to her laugh. Her stillness. The ridiculous cat. And for the first time in years, Devyn Holt didn’t feel completely in control. He hated it. But also... He couldn’t wait to go for jogging next day