Page 24 of Feral King

“Since you left the building.” His gaze sweeps the area for threats.

“Julian’s orders?

He nods. “He asked me to get you home safely.”

“Well, I’ve been taking the subway home for years. I don’t need an escort.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Thibodeaux, four years ago you weren’t publicly claimed by a Volkov in a roomful of… the type of people he associates with. The situation has changed.”

I want to argue, but then I think about those men back at the gala, those mean-looking, tattooed men I saw on the way out, men with dark coats and hard stares, and I realize that he’s right—it is a new world for me now.

I was on the outside when I’d worked here before. Now, I’m right in the center of it all, right at the side of the man around which this whole universe revolves.

“Lyra,” I say.

“Hm?”

“If you’re going to be my shadow, call me Lyra.”

There’s a faint crack in his composure. It’s not quite a smile, more like a slow melt.

“Lyra, your train is here.”

I swipe through the turnstile and step onto the E train headed for Queens. Through the closing doors, I see Ethan standing on the platform, hands in his pockets, watching until the train pulls away.

I find a seat and place my bag on my lap and stare at my reflection in the dark window across the aisle, trying to figure out what the hell sort of situation I’ve put myself in.

I don't have an answer.

CHAPTER 8

LYRA

I’m standing at the window of my apartment, holding a mug of chamomile I haven’t sipped yet, looking down at 30th Avenue.

The Greek bakery is closed, its awning pulled in. The laundromat’s fluorescent glow spills across the sidewalk. A couple walks by with a dog. A delivery guy on an e-bike zips past.

A completely normal evening in Astoria, that is, aside from the man across the street.

He’s standing under the awning of the hardware store, which closed two hours ago. He’s wearing a dark jacket, his hands in his pockets, as he faces my building. But most disconcertingly of all, he’s not on his phone, nor does he seem to be waiting for anyone.

He’s just there. Watching.

At least, I think he’s watching. It’s hard to see where his eyes are from beneath the brim of his hat.

I step back from the window, my heart rate ticking up. It’s not panic, not yet. But it’s that unmistakable low hum that happens in the back of your head when you know something’s off.

My gaze flicks over to my phone on the coffee table. I could call the police, but what would I say?

There’s a man standing on a public sidewalk across the street from my apartment.

They’d just laugh and hang up on me.

I think of Ethan, but I don’t have his number.

Julian.

I consider the option for exactly one second before I dismiss it. No, I’m not going to call Julian Volkov because of some random guy, standing across the street. I’m a grown woman living in New York. I’ve dealt with far worse than this on my own.