Page 26 of Feral King

“I mean that forty-eight hours ago, you were anonymous. Just another face in the crowd. Now you’re not.” He leans back against the side of the SUV, arms crossed, as if mirroring my posture.

“Ethan told me that he walked you to the station, that Sophia harassed you. He also told me that you took the E train and made it home without incident.”

“He reports back to you, and?”

“Correct. That’s his job.”

“Being a spy is part of his job?”

“As of today, his job is to keep you alive.”

I open my mouth to tell him that he’s being dramatic, that this is Astoria, one of the safest freaking neighborhoods in the city. The only threat around me is overpaying for a mediocre smash burger.

But then I stop myself. Julian is here, standing in my alley, behind my building, at ten o’clock at night, in jeans and aHenley, with no driver and no entourage. Just him and an SUV with blacked-out windows.

That’s when I notice that the look on his face isn’t angry, possessive, or controlling.

It’s worried.

He’s quietly, stubbornly, and stoically worried, in the way a man who doesn’t know how to sayI was thinking of you,so instead drives to Queens to make sure I’m not in danger.

“There’s someone watching my building,” I blurt out.

The shift is instantaneous.

“Where?”

“Across the street. In front of the hardware store. Dark jacket. Baseball cap. He’s been there since I got home. At least, I think he has.”

Julian’s lips form a thin line. He slips his phone out of his pocket, scrolls, then places a call.

“Ethan. 30th Avenue, Astoria. Yeah, Lyra’s building. We’ve got a watcher across the street. Hardware store, southeast corner. I want an ID, and I want to know who sent him.” A pause. “No, she’s with me.” Another pause. “Get it done.”

He ends the call, then glances at me with an expression that doesn’t invite debate.

“You’re coming with me.”

“Julian—”

“Lyra.”

With that, he opens the passenger door. “Someone is watching your home. We can argue about my methods tomorrow. Tonight, you’re getting in the car.”

I look at the open door before glancing back down the alley and toward the rear entrance of my building, where, suddenly, my tiny apartment with its fairy lights, and velvet armchair, and front door lock that doesn’t seem to work half the time, feels very exposed.

I look at Julian, then get in.

We don’t speak until we’re over the bridge into Manhattan. The city scrolls past the tinted windows as I watch the streetlights dance on Julian’s jaw and hands. My gaze traces the dark ink winding up his forearms.

I glance down and realize that the keys are still clutched between my fingers, the shiny end of my front door key poking out.

I relax my grip and lean back into the leather seat.

CHAPTER 9

LYRA

“You have a reservation? At 10:30 on a Tuesday night?”