Page 75 of Feral King

Julian is quiet at my side, listening and letting me talk through my memories.

When I’m silent for a beat, he clears his throat. “I haven’t been to my parents’ grave since I’ve been back.”

He says the words quietly, like it’s something he’s ashamed of.

“They’re in New York?”

He nods. “Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. My mother is next to her sister’s plot. My father is beside her.” A pause. “I’ve been back for weeks now but still haven’t gone.”

“Why not?”

He considers the question, as if he’s not sure of the answer.

“Because… I don’t know what I’d say. Everything seems so uncertain now. My father wanted me to protect the empire.”

“You are,” I tell him.

“That remains to be seen,” he says. “And my mother… she wanted me to be a good man. I’m even more uncertain about that.”

I cock my head to the side, regarding him with skepticism. “Julian, you run orphanages. You flew with me to New Orleans at midnight to sit with me in a waiting room for a man you’ve never met. And you paid for his surgery without being asked.” I take his hand. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

“You didn’t know her.” There’s a brusqueness to his tone, as if he doesn’t agree with the idea that he is a good man.

I’m not about to let him get away with it.

“Maybe not, but I knowyou. And whatever she poured into you, whatever made you build Irina’s House and bring cookies for those kids and fly across the country for me… that all came from somewhere. And I’m guessing it was her.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it, but he doesn’t say a word. He swallows hard, his eyes fixed forward. I can sense that something’s different, something has shifted.

We sit there for a few minutes longer. It’s turning out to be abeautiful day—cool, with a slight breeze and only a touch of humidity in the air.

“You should go,” I say. “When we get back to New York, you should go see them.”

He nods. And as he squeezes my hand, I feel something that I’ve never felt from Julian Volkov before.

Trust.

He’s trusting me with a part of himself that he doesn’t show anyone else. It’s the part that grieves and misses those he loved. The part that doubts who he is as a man.

There’s so much I want to say, but I stay silent. I hold his hand tighter, letting that be enough.

We get back to the house as the sun is setting, painting the clapboard siding amber and rose. The porch swing creaks in the breeze while the magnolia tree throws long shadows across the yard.

Mom texted an hour ago. She came home to shower and grab some clothes and will be staying at the hospital. Dad is stable and sleeping comfortably. I told her I’d be there soon to stay with her, but she responded by telling me that I needed to stay home and get a good night’s sleep—not to mention be hospitable to our guest.

I can’t believe we’re both still standing upright, considering neither of us have slept in over twenty-four hours.

Julian’s gazing out the window over the kitchen sink that overlooks the back lawn.

I lean against the counter and look at this man in Mama’s kitchen, in my dad’s ratty old T-shirt, and know exactly what I need.

“Julian.”

“Lyra.”

“Come here.”

His hands find my waist. I stand on my tiptoe the way I always have to whenever I kiss him. He leans down, and when his lips touch mine, I nearly cry.