Page 31 of Feral King

“What is?—”

He holds up a finger, and I realize right away what’s going on—he’s checking the apartment for intruders.

My heart races. Did he hear something?

He mouths the wordkey, and I nod, taking my key ring out of my purse and finding the one for my apartment. When I unlock the door, he holds up his hand, signaling for me to stay back. Then he reaches into his coat and takes out a gun. I cover my mouth so my gasp can’t be heard by whoever might be inside the apartment.

Julian slowly pushes the door open. I lean in just a bit, enough to keep eyes on him.

He moves through the space with precision. He’s systematic, checking behind the kitchen counter before sweeping to the tiny hallway that leads to the bathroom and bedroom. Then the bathroom, the closet in the bedroom, under the bed. He even glances behind the shower curtain. It almost makes me laugh, but then my blood runs cold when I think about the possibility of someoneactuallyhiding behind it.

The windows and fire escape are next. He tests the locks and scans the street below.

I hate that I now live in a world where I have to worry about things like that.

“Clear,” he says.

I enter the apartment with slow, careful steps, as if I might set off an alarm if I move too quickly.

“Do you do this everywhere you go?” I ask, my heart still racing a bit.

“Not all. Mostly the unsecure ones that I’m unfamiliar with.”

“That must make dinner parties awkward.”

“I don’t do dinner parties,” he says as he slips his gun back into his pocket.

The fairy lights wash gold across his face, softening the angles in an alluring way.

My eyes linger on the place where the gun is. I swallow hard. I’ve never had a gun in my apartment before. Hell, I’ve never even seen one in real life.

“Thank you.”

He nods, then just stares at me.

I want to ask him what he’s looking at, but I don’t. I let the moment hang, then take a deep breath. I know exactly what he’s thinking—that we’re in my apartment, together, alone.

He closes the distance between us in two steps. His big hand comes up to my face, his thumb tracing my jaw, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I close my eyes and let him touch me in a way I know he shouldn’t.

His touch moves down to my chin. He tilts it up, and I open my eyes, looking directly into his. That color, that beautiful gunmetal gray, reminds me of a winter storm, of solid steel, of something hard and soft all at once.

My breath catches.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is quiet. I know he’s giving me an exit, if I want to take it.

“No.”

He leans in and kisses me. It’s not like the car, quick and sudden. It’s slower and more intentional. His mouth moves against mine with patience, like he wants to memorize every last detail of my lips. His right hand slides down my side, finding the hem of my shirt and slipping underneath.

I moan as his fingers spread against my bare waist. I close my eyes to savor the warmth and roughness of his palm against my skin. The contact sends pulses through me.

He pulls back just enough to tug the shirt over my head, and I let him. I’m standing at the entrance to my bedroom in a sports bra and sweatsuit bottoms, fairy lights twinkling overhead.

Then the old panic flashes—the self-consciousness, that reflex to cross my arms and angle my body in an attempt to make myself appear smaller. I think of Alexander, the way he’d look at me when I was half naked.

I hope Julian doesn’t notice my hesitation, but of course, he does. His eyes don’t leave mine as his hands come to a rest on my hips with a steadiness that grounds me.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says. “Not ever.”