Page 25 of Feral King

I take a sip of my tea and turn back toward my living room.

My apartment might only be 600 square feet, but it’smy600 square feet. It’s a one-bedroom on the third floor of a pre-War walkup on 30th Avenue, sandwiched between a Greek bakery and a laundromat that fills the stairwell with the scent of warm cotton.

It’s barely bigger than Julian’s office, but I’ve made it my own. Bookshelves line the hallway, and there’s a secondhand velvet armchair by the window that I reupholstered myself. There are fairy lights strung along the ceiling and plush rugs covering the hardwoodfloor.

There’s a corkboard above my desk dotted with contacts from the foundation, event timelines, and a photo of my parents at their thirtieth anniversary dinner, which makes me smile every time I look at it.

Normally, my place is enough. I’ve never been the kind of girl who wanted an Upper East Side penthouse.

But tonight, it feels like a fishbowl.

I have to leave, go for a walk, and get some fresh air, something other than pacing around, feeling like I’m being watched.

I set my mug down, then pull on a tracksuit and sneakers, before grabbing my keys and phone. I head out into the hallway and down the back stairs.

The rear exit opens onto the alley behind the building. The alley is narrow and dimly lit, with dumpsters on one side and a chain-link fence on the other. The smell of pad Thai wafts out from the Thai restaurant behind me.

I head to the end of the alley and cut through to Broadway, aiming to get to a place that’s well-lit, with plenty of witnesses, before trying to figure out whether or not I’m really being watched.

I make it exactly four steps before a black SUV pulls to the end of the alley, blocking my exit. The windows are tinted, and I can’t make out who’s behind the wheel. My blood runs cold as I realize there’s no one around.

I work my keys in my hand until the pointed end is jutting out between my fingers, the way my dad taught me. It feels silly. What, I’m going to fight off a car full of thugs with the keys to my house? But in the moment, it’s all I have.

The driver’s door opens, and Julian Volkov steps out. There’s a nonchalant expression on his face. He’s not in a suit, which right away throws me for a loop. Instead, he’s in faded jeans and a black short-sleeve Henley, his Bratva ink on full display. He looks completely different from the man I know at work or from the gala.

Holy hell. This version of Julian Volkov makes my brain short-circuit and my panties wet.

“You havegotto be kidding me,” I say.

“I don’t kid around.”

“You’re parked in my alley. What the hell is going on?”

“I’m checking on you.”

He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like I should expect him to be here.

“You’re checking on me? At ten o’clock at night? In an alley?”

I don’t need to guess whether or not he’s armed. The guy’s probably got a whole arsenal in the back of that SUV.

The corner of his mouth moves into that now-familiar near smirk.

“I was planning on knocking on your door, then I saw you leave.”

“So you were watching me?”

“I prefer the term being vigilant.”

I lean back against the brick wall of my building and cross my arms, letting out a heavy sigh. It takes conscious effortto physically hold myself in place, so I don’t shove him or scream at him—or worse.

“I don’t need you checking on me. I’ve lived in this city for seven years. I take the subway and I walk home alone. I’ve been fine.”

“You’ve been fine because no one was watching you before.”

The words hit hard. Does he know about the man across the street?

“What do you meanbefore?”