Page 8 of Feral King

I hate him for knowing I can't say no.

I hate myself for realizing I might not have anyway.

As my mind races, Julian leans down, his breath warm against my ear.

"Breathe, Lyra."

"I'm breathing fine," I lie.

"Good girl," he murmurs. Then, with his thumb tracing one slow, deliberate line across the small of my back: "Wear the green dress."

He's gone before I can answer, swallowed by a tide of investors, leaving me holding a champagne glass I don't remember emptying.

That's when I feel it. Another pair of eyes, cold where Julian's were burning.

Across the ballroom, Alexander is watching me over the rim of his glass. He isn't angry anymore. He's smiling, slow and deliberate, the way he used to smile right before he took something apart just to prove he could.

And I understand, with a chill no amount of champagne will fix, that whatever war just started between the Volkov brothers, I'm the battlefield.

They should both remember something about battlefields, though.

That's where warsare lost.

“You planned this, didn’t you? Tonight. All of it.”

We’re out on the balcony moments later, where it’s quieter and calmer.

Manhattan hums beneath us, as the muffled strings of the quartet bleed through the tall glass doors. Compared to being the ballroom, being on the balcony feels like coming up for air after being trapped underwater.

Julian leans against the stone railing, his glass of champagne dangling from his fingertips untouched. He watches me carefully, as if he’s trying to size me up. There’s no rush to his gaze—it’s like everything is happening onhistime. The Manhattan skyline casts amber light across the angles of his face.

I still can’t get over what just happened. Alexander and Sophia have been the bane of my goddamn existence for the last few months. And Julian just…disassembledthem.

He considers my question, pausing to give it some thought before responding. I get the sense that this is how he handles most things.

“I was the one who invited you here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it,” I reply instantly. “I’m asking if you orchestrated Sophia’s termination and planned to announce here tonight. Was any of that spontaneous, or was I walking into a script from the very beginning?”

Something shifts in his expression. I sense two things: One, that he’s not used to people talking to him in such a way; two, that he appreciates it. The faintest whisper of a smirk forms at the corner of his mouth, and he looks away for a long moment, as if reflecting.

“Sophia’s behavior tonight was her own. So, yes, that part was spontaneous, if that’s the word you prefer to use.”

“And everything else?”

“I’ve been planning my return for months. Your presence here tonight was important to me.”

“But why? You don’t even know who I am.”

“I make it a point to learn about everyone in my organization. I know who is competent and who is not. And you, Lyra, are most definitely on the competent list.

“You’ve built something real here, but you were driven out by people who couldn’t match you. That’s something they don’t tell you about running an organization—you want talent, obviously, but talent attracts the scorn and envy ofthe less talented. What happened to you was an inefficiency.”

“An inefficiency.” I almost laugh at his choice of words. “Quite a romantic way to put it.”

“I’m not much for romance, Lyra.”

“I’m getting that.”