Page 28 of Feral King

“It’s delicious.”

It really is. I’m not exactly a huge wine drinker, but even I can taste the rich notes of cherry and the subtle hints of dark chocolate and black pepper. Perfect for a late-night dinner.

The food arrives—burrata with roasted tomatoes; handmade pappardelle in a gorgeous red sauce; and a basket of fresh,steaming bread that I can’t help but reach for instantly. I take a piece and cover it with a bit of butter, eating half the slice in seconds.

But then the old reflex kicks in—the little, nagging voice in the back of my head that sounds like Alexander and Sophia combined, the one that’s always comparing me to other, slimmer women, deeming me not as good or as worthy.

Slow down. You’re being too indulgent. People are watching.

I set the bread down. Julian notices instantly. He raises a brow as if he’s sizing up exactly what’s happening, then he pushes the basket back toward me.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Allowing whatever happened to you before make you put the bread down.” His voice is quiet, but firm, making it clear the subject isn’t up for debate. “Eat the bread, Lyra.”

I purse my lips, suddenly feeling silly.

“I inhaled half the slice.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s good bread. Have the rest.”

I stare at him as if there’s going to be a catch, but there isn’t. He just stares back with an expression that suggests that the idea of depriving myself of something I’m enjoying is a problem he’s going to solve right then and there.

I eat the bread. It’s excellent—warm, crusty, and perfect.

We talk—not about the Bratva, not about Alexander, not about the man who may or may not have been watching my building—but about other things. The sort of things you talkabout when the wine and the vibe is perfect, and you can tell the other person is actually listening.

He asks about New Orleans. I tell him about the Garden District, the beignets, and the way the whole city smells like jasmine in May. He asks about my parents, and I tell him about my dad’s woodworking, about my mom’s teaching, how she could’ve retired two years ago, but refuses to because she insists that “the kids need her.”

“She’s probably right,” he agrees. “Good teachers can change lives.”

I ask him about his mother. He tells me about the house in upstate New York where he grew up, how his mom taught him how to cook, how she loved to play Italian music—similar to what’s playing at the restaurant—every Saturday morning while they made breakfast together.

“She sounds wonderful,” I say, and I mean it.

“She was.” He takes a slow sip of his wine. “You know, part of me wanted to stay overseas, continue my work as an informal corporate diplomat. I could’ve, too, but I came back because of my mother. The memory of her, anyway. The foundation. I couldn’t let Alexander run the remaining part of her into the ground.”

“He seems to have a talent for such things.”

“Yes.” Julian’s eyes meet mine from across the table. “He seems quite skilled at having good things and ruining them with his own bad decisions.”

I swallow. We’re not just talking about the foundation anymore.

The waiter returns and sets a dessert menu between us. I glance at it: tiramisu, panna cotta, and a chocolate torte. A smile begins to form on my lips.

And then the reflex fires again. I think of Alexander’s voice, smooth and casual.You sure about that, babe? You just had pasta. Weren’t you complaining about your work clothes barely fitting anymore? You think dessert’s going to help?

I wince internally. Two years of that—two years of being mindful about what I ordered, my portion size, how quickly I ate—all the while restraining myself, so I wouldn’t have to deal with his looks and his comments.

“What sounds good?” Julian asks.

“I’m fine. The pasta was plenty.”

Julian gives me a long look, one that says, “I can see right through you.” Then he gently plucks the menu from the table and gives it a once-over.

“It all looks good. Order something.”