Page 13 of Feral King

As we walk, I take in the familiar bustle of the executive level, admiring the sweeping views of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Anyway, I’m working as Julian’s PA. But I’m just part-time for now. This guy Joe is going to handle the other shifts—I met him an hour ago, and he’s really great. Ex-military, zero small talk, makes amazing coffee. Between the two of us, I think we should have the big man covered.”

“Speaking of which,” I say as I scan the floor, half-expecting to spot Julian watching us from afar. “How are things going? I know it’s only the first day since he’s been back, but…”

She purses her lips and nods, making it clear she understands what I’m getting at.

“Julian is Julian. He’s been here since six, he’s on his fourth espresso and already made two interns cry.”

“Yikes.”

“He’s a lot, Lyra. I love him, but he’sa lot.”

I can’t help but smile. Anya reminds me of him—she’s got the same directness, the same no-bullshit attitude. But she has a much lighter personality and is quicker to laugh.

I remember Alexander being dismissive toward her at dinners, talking over her, and treating her like she was nothing more than an annoying kid sister. She never foughtback, not out of passivity, but because it seemed like she’d decided he wasn’t worth the effort.

We stop just outside a frosted glass door withJ. Volkov—CEOetched into it. The sight is a little surreal. When I worked here the first time, this office had been empty. Julian’s been gone for three years. Knowing there’s now someone on the other side of the imposing door is odd, to say the least.

“For what it’s worth,” Anya says, “I’m really glad you’re here. Julian told me what Alexander and Sophia did to you. It’s disgusting, and I said so to Alexander.”

“You did? When?”

“Last night,” she says. “As soon as I heard.”

I lean forward conspiratorially. “What did he say?”

She scoffs, then rolls her eyes. “He told me to mind my own business. And now I’m working here and he’s not.”

That makes me laugh.

“Anyway,” she says, “he’s waiting for you.” She nods toward the door. “He told me to bring you straight in when you showed up. Good luck!”

With that, she opens the door, gives me a wink, then heads back down the hall to collect her tower of folders.

I stare at the open door for several seconds, still unable to believe I agreed to come back.

After several steeling breaths, I step inside.

Right away, I notice that Julian’s office is nothing like Alexander’s. Alexander’s was all glass andchrome, designed to impress, like a shrine to his success, or, at least, his imagined success.

Julian’s, on the other hand, is simple, elegant, and masculine, with dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a large, antique desk. The windows face east, so the morning light cuts across the room in sharp, clean lines.

Julian sits behind the desk, reading something on his phone. His jacket is off; his sleeves rolled to his forearms. The Bratva tattoos are visible now—dark ink winding up both arms. When he looks up, his eyes narrow in a way that is now familiar.

The feeling of his eyes on me causes my pussy to clench, and my heart rate picks up so quickly, I can hear the blood thudding in my ears.

“You’re early,” he says.

“You said eight,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry.

He checks his watch.

“It’s seven fifty-two.”

“Well, on time is late.”

His mouth turns up into that whisper of a smirk, another familiar move.