Page 104 of Feral King

I reach for my phone and check the screen. Still jammed.

As I glance sideways at Ethan, a thought hits me with the force of a fist to the sternum.

Lee’s made her play here. The move is to decapitate, to destroy my political position, to leave me powerless.

And you don’t make a move like that unless you’ve got other moves to go with it.

Lyra. A jammed phone. I can’t reach her, and she can’t reach me.

“I need to leave,” I say to the room.

“The council isn’t adjourned,” Dobrov says. His smile suggests he’s been waiting for this moment for years. “We still have more to discuss.”

“We do not,” I say, standing. “You’re more than welcome to stay and talk all you want. Or don’t—I don’t give a damn. But I’m walking out of this room right now, and anyone who tries to stop me will learn a harsh lesson.”

“You’re not to leave yet,” Lee says. “You need to formally relinquish control of the syndicate and give it over to your brother. This needs to be official and agreed upon.”

“Like hell, I will,” I respond. “This is a revolt, and I’m not going to sign on the dotted line for it.”

I turn to Alexander, still seated and silent, his eyes fixed forward.

I’ve had enough.

“Brother, I think it’s time you said something. You want to be the man in charge, correct? Then stand and assert your goddamn authority. Show the council that you’ve got what it takes.”

Alex turns his attention to me for the first time since Lee arrived.

“That is not necessary, brother. Your position is clear. There’s no need for this to become anything more drastic. Simply abdicate here and now, and this can all be over.”

“Not a goddamn chance,” I snarl. “Over my dead body.”

As if he’d been waiting for a cue, Dobrov reaches into his jacket and produces a silver pistol.

“We don’t have to do it this way,” he says. “But one way or another, Julian, you’re giving up leadership of this council.”

I clench my hands into fists.

A revolt. And I walked right into it.

But I don’t give a damn about myself.

I give a damn about Lyra.

There’s no doubt that she’s in danger.

I have to get to her, no matter what.

CHAPTER 39

LYRA

“Let’s see… there it is.” Dr. Okafor tilts the ultrasound screen toward me, tapping a spot on the gray-white blur with the tip of her pen. “You see that flicker? That’s the heartbeat.”

I see it. It’s surreal as hell, but I see it—a tiny, rapid pulse in the center of what looks like a kidney bean in the middle of a snowstorm.

She turns up the volume, a quickwhoosh, whoosh, whooshfilling the room.

“That’s a strong heartbeat,” Dr. Okafor says. She’s a tall woman in her early fifties with close-cropped hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the exact kind of warm, steady calm you want from an OB/GYN.