Page 3 of Feral King

Julian Volkov.

He's been away for three years, during which time Alexander barely mentioned him. He became more like a legend than a real person. The Volkov family Bigfoot, if Bigfoot wore Italian tailoring.

But he's not a legend. He's here, and he's moving right toward me.

And I have about four seconds to remember how to be a person.

"You must be Lyra Thibodeaux." His voice is low and unhurried, carrying a faint Russian accent softened by decades of living in America. I feel that voice somewhere behind my sternum, which is new information about myself I didn't ask for. He offers me a glass. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"And you must be Julian Volkov." I take the champagne, knowing two drinks back to back could be a very bad idea. I take a sip anyway. Risk management has never been my strong suit; ask my former fiancé. "You're taller than your brother."

Taller than your brother. That's what I lead with. Fantastic work, Lyra.

His eyes flash with amusement. They're gray. Not a poetic gray. Just gray, and completely locked on me, and somehow that's worse.

"We are different in several respects."

"So far I'm counting height and punctuality," I add. "You're only three years late to your own company."

Something dangerously close to a smile tugs at his mouth. I want to see the whole thing. That's a problem. "You have to be bold in my line of work. It's a useful skill, especially when speaking to women."

"Then let me save you some boldness. You've been staring at me since the elevator." I sip my champagne. "Most men at least pretend to look at the ice sculpture."

"I don't pretend," he says. "And the ice sculpture isn't the most interesting thing in the room."

I feel my cheeks flush.

I'm standing in front of a man who's not just the CEO of Volkov Industries, but also the pakhan of the Volkov Bratva, if the rumors are true. They say the company is a cover for a Russian criminal syndicate that exists in shadows. Alexander had always been coy about the subject, and I was always too scared to press.

"Your gala is impressive," he says. "The foundation hasn't seen this level of attendance in years."

"It's your gala, technically. It's got your name on it."

“The work is yours." He holds my gaze. He doesn't blink enough. It bothers me. Just not in the way it's supposed to.

I notice the tattoos sneaking out beneath his cuff. Dark ink, deliberate patterns. Bratva markings, if I had to guess.

"I read your proposal for the children's literacy initiative," he says. "The one Alexander shelved."

My spine straightens before I can stop it.

That proposal took me four months. Reading programs in six foster group homes, books that kids actually get to keep, tutors paid a real wage. There's a boy named Marcus at the one in Queens who read his first full chapter book at eleven and looked at me like he'd stolen fire.

"He said it wasn't cost-effective."

"Alexander wouldn't know cost-effective if it paid his bar tab," Julian says, his gaze never wavering. "I'd like to revisit it. With you."

And that's the moment he gets dangerous. Not the tattoos, not the security guards who won't meet his eyes. This. A man who read my shelved proposal and leads with it.

"Mr. Volkov..."

"Julian,” he insists.

"Julian, I don't work for the company anymore."

"I'm aware of that," he says and takes a sip of champagne. "That's a problem I intend to fix."

"I'm not looking to be fixed. Or hired out of pity."