Page 89 of Feral King

I look down at this man on his knees, asking me for something he’s never asked of anyone.

Patience.

“Ethan stays with me,” I tell him. “At all times.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I keep working. The foundation, the events, all of it. I’m not going to stay in this penthouse like a prisoner.”

“You’re not a prisoner. You’re the mother of my child, and if you want to work, you’ll work. But Ethan will be at your side at all times.”

“And I want to be kept in the loop. No secrets. No plotting behind my back. If something’s going on and it involves me, involves our child, I want to know about it.”

"Agreed."

"Okay, then I'll stay."

He exhales sharply. I hold him there with my fingers in his hair and the city glitteringbehind us.

I’m doubtful yet hopeful, terrified yet excited. All emotions at once, occupying the same space.

But I’m staying.

And for now, that's enough.

CHAPTER 33

JULIAN

The drive from Tribeca to Chinatown takes eleven minutes. I spend the entire time thinking about the size of a lentil.

That’s what the internet says. The baby at six weeks is the size of a lentil. And it’s when the heartbeat starts, when cells begin dividing, when the tiny person inside of her begins to take shape.

I’ve negotiated arms deals and shipping routes, decided whether men live or die. But none of it, not one second of it, has ever felt as terrifyingly consequential as knowing that Lyra is carrying my child.

My child.

It still hasn’t settled in my mind. It’s too new, too strange. Almost like a foreign language that I’m learning how to navigate through.

Ethan is in the passenger seat, running surveillance from his phone. The agreement with Lyra is that, if she’s home,Ethan or his guards are with her. If she’s out of the apartment, Ethan doesn’t leave her side.

All the same, I’m nervous as hell about leaving her alone. The penthouse is as secure as a bank vault, but that doesn’t matter to me. I should be with her.

Two hours. That’s how long I told her I’d be gone for. She’d looked at me from the couch, with her hand on her stomach, and told me to be careful. There was worry in her eyes when she said it, as if she was acutely aware of the possibility that the father of her child might leave and never come back.

I stop on Mott Street. Ethan gets out and checks the block, the rooftops, the parked cars.

“Clean,” he says. “As far as I can tell.”

“As far as you can tell.”

“This is Chinatown. Clean is a relative term.”

The address Lee gave me for our meeting is a teahouse sandwiched between two three-story walk-ups that look like they haven’t been renovated since the eighties. I open the door to a narrow stairway drenched in fluorescent lighting, the scent of oolong thick in the air.

Not my ideal choice for a meeting place. I see it as a red flag.

The room at the top of the stairs is small. There are six tables, all empty, except for one. Mrs. Lee is seated with her back to the wall, a small porcelain cup in front of her. Her posture is ramrod straight, her eyes hidden behind large, dark, round sunglasses. Cantonese pop music plays on a small sound system.