Page 42 of Feral King

I take a slow sip of my drink and study him. Alexander, my little brother. Thirty-two years old, handsome, charming, and absolutely sure that everything in life is the equivalent of talking a woman into bed. Just say the right words in the right way and you have the keys to the kingdom.

But he’s wrong.

He thinks that I’ll trade Lyra for his loyalty, because in his world, people are currency. You collect them, use them, and toss them aside when they’ve served their purpose.

“No way.”

The words are simple and final.

Alexander blinks and cocks his head to the side, as if he’s not quite sure he heard me correctly.

“What?”

“No way. Lyra stays. The subject is non-negotiable.”

He sits back, a bit dumbfounded, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that I would say no.

“You’re–you’re serious?”

“Yes.”

He rubs his chin. “Well, in that case, we have a problem.”

“Indeed we do.”

“But why?” he asks. “We could sort all of this out right now, get back on the same page. Everyone will get what they want.”

The answer to why is simple—I’m not going to allow Alexander to dictate terms. I’m not going to allow him to tell me what to do, not even for his loyalty. And it’s not simply a matter of pride; if he knows that he can pull my strings now, he’ll do it again and again.

He needs to fall in line, to respect the hierarchy, and not be under the impression that everything is a negotiation.

And there’s another piece to it; one I’m not quite comfortable thinking about.

I don’t want Lyra to leave.

I tuck that feeling away; it’s not going to help in this conversation.

Alexander drops the diplomatic act. The performance is gone, replaced by the petulant brat I so often saw as a child, the one who lashed out when he didn’t get his way.

“Well, then, this means war, brother.” He says it with a quiet, steady tone.

“It’s been war since the gala, Alexander. You’re just now catching up.”

He narrows his eyes, and I can see the pure hate burning within.

“Here’s my offer to you,” I say. I place my fingertips on the rim of the glass, turning it slowly. “Fall into line. Recognize that I’m the one in charge—just as I’ve earned and just as our father intended. You get all of the benefits of being close to power, and perhaps a little more responsibility and power of your own, if you prove worthy of it.

“But you don’t get to dictate terms. You don’t tell me who I can and can’t have in my organization. You respect the order of power.”

I let my words hang in the air. “Let me be clear, brother—this is good a deal as you’re going to get.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he slams his fist on the table. The noise is loud enough to cut through the low din of the bar and catch the attention of the other patrons.

Then he stands, straightens his cuffs, throws a hundred on the table, and leaves.

I watch him walk out, the door slamming behind him.

I shake my head. I’m confident I made the right decision. I’m the don. This isn’t a partnership. Alexander doesn’t dictate terms. He falls in line, or he gets cast aside.