Page 99 of Feral King

“Because chess is the only game that matters, because it teaches you to think three moves ahead.”

“Yep. And you beat me every single time. I’d get so pissed and Dad would say?—”

“’Losing teaches you more than winning. Pay attention tohowhe beats you.”

“Right.” His mouth twitches. “I never did learn how you beat me. Never had a head for chess. I just got angry about it and eventually stopped playing.”

I laugh. “Not entirely true,” I say. “You just found another way to compete with me.”

The words come out harsher than I intend. Alexander holds my gaze, something like acknowledgement passing between us. He changed the game—board votes instead of chess pieces, media manipulation instead of strategy, charm instead of competence.

“Maybe I did,” he admits. “But I’m tired of it, Julian. Tired of fighting you. Tired of looking in the mirror and seeing a man Dad would be ashamed of.”

I’m unexpectedly moved by his words. But I don’t show it.

“Anyway, no need to waste any more time strolling down memory lane. This Friday, I am going to stand up and publicly support you. I’ll tell every family I’ve built a relationship with that the Volkov house is united. Dobrov will lose his leverage, and Lee will see stability. You’ll get your deal and your leadership, and whatever this is happening between us stops.”

I take a moment to let his offer settle in my mind.

“And what do you want in return?”

“Nothing.” He says it with zero hesitation.

“Alexander.”

“I’m serious. I mean it. Nothing. No conditions. Not this time.” He meets my eyes. “Family unity is more important than anything else. I’m ashamed that it took me so long to see it, but I finally do. Better late than never, I suppose.”

I study him. My little brother, sitting in my office, invoking our dead father and childhood memories. Every instinct I have says that this is a play, that somewhere beneath the nostalgia and the vulnerability, there’s an angle.

But there’s another part of me, the part that stood on a dock for two hours teaching my ten-year-old half-brother how to cast a line, that wants me to believe him, that wants a relationship with him.

I take a long, deep breath through my nose.

“Then I’ll see you on Friday.”

He opens his mouth to speak, as if he’d been expecting more resistance. Then he closes it, nods, and gets up.

“Julian.”

“Yeah.”

“Dad would’ve hated all of this, the fighting, the rivalry.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “He would’ve forced us to sit down and make us talk until we figured it out.”

“Yes. He would’ve.”

“I… I miss him.”

“So do I.”

Then he walks to the door and opens it, pausing before stepping through.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without turning around, “Lyra’s good for you. I didn’t see it before, but I see it now.”

He leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

When he’s gone, I let my gaze linger on the chair where he’d just been sitting. I feel something, a sentiment that I’d buried so long ago that I’m not quite sure what it is or what to call it.

He’s lying. I know he’s lying. The childhood memories, the fishing trip, the chess set, the practiced vulnerability… it’s all a performance, one calibrated to disarm me.