Page 4 of Feral King

"Pity." He says the word like it's a mildly interesting insect. "I don't feel pity, Lyra. I read your event files. All of them. Four years of flawless execution under a name you borrowed so no one could accuse you of being handed anything." He pauses. "Broussard. Your mother's, yes?"

My stomach drops half an inch. That's not in my personnel file. I made sure of it.

"You've done your homework," I say carefully.

"Always." He takes another unhurried sip. "For instance. The ring was worth more than the pawnbroker gave you. You should have let me handle the sale."

The champagne goes still in my glass.

I pawned that ring nine hours ago. I told no one. Not my mother, not a soul.

"How do you..." I stop myself. Rebuild. If he wanted me rattled, he's going to have to work harder than that. "You know what? Don't answer. Just tell me this. Do you research every event planner in Manhattan, or should I be flattered?"

"Neither," he says. "You should be careful."

"I pawned an engagement ring nine hours after deciding my life was mine again. Careful isn't really where I am right now."

Something shifts in his expression. Not amusement this time. Something closer to respect.

"Have dinner with me tomorrow and ask me anything you like."

And there it is, under the warmth and the tailoring: this man doesn't meet people. He acquires information about them first. I should put down this glass and walk out of this building.

I don't move.

My breath catches, and God help me, the first thing my brain does is the math. Dad's surgery, scheduled instead of prayed about. Mom's voice on the phone sounding like herself again.

I hate how much I want it. And that he can see it.

Before I can respond, a silver-haired man in a charcoal suit materializes at Julian's elbow. An investor, judging by the Patek Philippe watch and his impatient stare. "Julian, if I could steal you for a moment. The Shanghai portfolio..."

"One moment, Victor." Julian doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't even look at him. But something shifts in his face, a coldness, flat and absolute, like a light switching off behind his eyes.

The investor's hand trembles around his glass.

I should be scared. Somewhere under the champagne, I think I am.

Then Julian turns back to me, and the warmth returns as though it never left. His hand grazes the small of my back in a gesture so slight, I might have imagined it.

I didn't imagine it. I will be thinking about it for a week.

"Don't leave, Lyra."

It's not a request. I'm starting to suspect nothing out of this man's mouth ever is.

He steps away but not far. Even as he speaks to the investor, Julian remains within arm's reach of me, and I catch him glancing back at me. Like he's keeping me. Like I'm already his.

I should hate that.

Instead, my pulsestutters like it recognizes something it shouldn't.

The temperature in the room changes when Alexander crosses my line of sight, his expensive cuff links catching the light as he holds his glass of champagne.

The man looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, and I know him well enough to understand that his appearance is intentional. In two years, I never once won the fight for bathroom mirror time. Not once.

Sophia's beside him, of course. Slim, blonde, impeccable in a white sheath dress. White. To a gala. Sure. Why not?

They move through the crowd with the ease of a couple that believes they belong anywhere.