Page 36 of Feral King

My hand moves down my belly, drifting down between my thighs.

No way. No time for that.

I quickly rinse the soap off my body, then turn off the shower. I get out and dry myself with a plush towel, then dress for work—black skirt, ivory silk blouse, black heels.

I catch my reflection in the mirror in the hallway on the way out. I pause, noticing my posture, my poise, how I’m carrying myself with a confidence that wasn’t there yesterday.

I pull my gaze away from the mirror and grab the rest of my things, snagging an apple and a steel mug full of coffee. Before I leave, I step over to the window and look out at the hardware store where the man had been standing, the one who’d set last night into motion.

No one’s there, of course, but I don’t feel any safer.

I head out, locking the door and then double-checking it, and walk to the station. There’s a man in a dark coat leaning against the wall of the bakery downstairs. He nods at me as I pass. He must be Julian’s guy. He waits until I’m down the block a bit before pushing off the wall and following me.

This is my life now.

I make it to the E train and find a seat.

I don’t text him back.

My intercom buzzes at a little after nine.

“Lyra.My office. Bring the donor list for the upcoming event.”

Julian’s voice turns me on and pisses me off at the same time. No good morning, no mention of last night—just that commanding tone stripped of every trace of the man who practically wanted to build a shrine in honor of my body last night.

Fine. Two can play this game.

I grab the folder, then start down the corridor, giving Anya a prim smile as I pass by her desk. She smiles back and waves, then appears a little confused, sensing that something’s off.

When I reach Julian’s office, I knock once, then enter. He’s behind his desk, jacket off, and sleeves rolled. My eyes go right to the tattoos, the forearms, those gunmetal-gray eyes.

Goddammit.

He sits back, and I watch him take in the sight of me, registering the stiffness in my posture, the folder held against my chest, like a shield.

He extends his hand.

“The donor list.”

I stride over and give it to him.

“Updated as of yesterday,” I say. “I’ve flagged three prospects that lagged under previous management. If you’d like, I can draft outreach letters this afternoon. Hasn’t been too long since they fell off the radar, so it shouldn’t take too much to coax them back. People usually feel pretty guilty about leaving charities, and only do so if they ha?—”

“Sit down.”

I bristle at the words.

“I’d rather stand. Is there anything else you need?”

He studies me, and I hold his gaze. Looking away would feel like losing, and I’m not about to lose.

He stands and walks over to the door, then locks it.

“Julian—”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m being professional. I’m keeping things between us.”