Page 29 of Feral King

“Julian, I don’t?—”

“Lyra.” He leans forward, his voice low. “You never need to control your appetite around me. Not at this table, not anywhere.” His gaze holds mine, serious and steady. “I want you to haveexactlywhat you want every time. Do you understand?”

I understand that he’s talking about dessert and not talking about dessert all at the same time.

I gulp.

He leans back. “Actually, do you mind if I order?” he asks. “I’ve got a sense of what’s good here.”

“S–sure.”

He gestures to the waiter, who quickly approaches.

“One of each,” he says.

My eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about dessert.”

The waiter nods and takes the menu. I shift in my seat after he leaves, not quite sure how to feel or what to think.

The three desserts arrive in moments. I spend a few seconds looking between them, not quite sure where to begin.

First, the panna cotta. I wield my spoon like a weapon, reaching over and slipping it into the pillowy-white treat. It tastes like heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven. I melt into the leather of the booth, letting the creamy-sweet texture be the only thing I focus on.

Next, the tiramisu. It’s perfect—that unmistakable blend of espresso, chocolate, and mascarpone, all folded into ladyfingers. I follow up the first bite with another, then turn my attention to the torte.

It’s devastatingly delicious—dark and rich, the kind of delicacy that makes you feel like you’re committing a crime by enjoying it. I take a second bite and close my eyes. When I open them, Julian is watching me with an expression that makes my cheeks flush.

“Good?”

“Incredible. So good.”

“Excellent. Stop apologizing for enjoying things. Consider that the one rule of being in my company.” He takes his fork and scoops a bite of the tiramisu, savoring it, then nodding in appreciation as if standing before a gorgeous work of art. “Life is too short, and chocolate is too good.”

I laugh. The knot in my chest, the one that Alexander tied there and that Sophia pulled tighter, finally loosens, if only just a little.

I find myself looking at him like he’s another dessert in front of me. My gaze moves over his lips, his jaw, the way his hand grips the fork with careful precision. I shift in my seat, suddenly feeling painfully aware of what this man is doing to me.

When he flicks those gunmetal-gray eyes at me, I gasp a bit, as if he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t have been. For a moment, I want nothing more than for him to lean across the table and?—

His phone buzzes with a text. When his attention snaps to it, I take the moment to let out the breath I’d been holding. Julian picks the phone off the table and reads.

“It’s Ethan. Says that they checked the block, and it’s clear.”

“What about the guy in the baseball cap across the street?”

“Says he left twenty minutes after we did. They’re running plates on a car that pulled away from the curb around the same time.”

“So I can go home now?” Strangely, I’m a little disappointed as I speak the words. Part of me wanted this night to keep going.

“Yes, I can takeyou home,” he gently says. “No trains, no Ubers, though. Not tonight.”

He stands and offers me his hand. I take it, focusing on the warmth and roughness of his skin. Gently, he guides me out of the seat, then nods to the waiter on the way out, who nods back at him. No bill is given, no money exchanged. I find myself wondering just what kind of arrangement he has with this place.

Together, we step out into the cool Midtown night and are soon back in his SUV. The drive to Astoria takes twenty minutes, the silence that hangs between us is tense and awkward.

He pulls up in front of my building. I glance up and down the block to see if the man from before might still be under the hardware store awning. He isn’t.