Page 46 of Feral King

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s Elena’s son. Isn’t that going to cause problems?”

He shakes his head. “Peter has been causing himself problems ever since he learned how to talk. Elena knows how he is; she knows that getting taken down a peg every now andthen is good for him. But more importantly, the seating chart. That was exceptional work, Lyra. You may have prevented something catastrophic from happening.”

I allow myself a small, pleased smile. “Just a trained eye.”

He looks at me carefully, and I find myself wondering what’s on his mind.

The elevator car arrives and the doors open.

“You’re being too modest,” he says. “But either way, this is exactly why I need you.”

The way he saysneedcarries a hell of a lot of weight. And I suspect it’s about more than just seating charts.

We step inside and I find myself wondering how the hell I’d gotten through the last week without his presence.

I’m becoming addicted. And I don’t mind one bit.

It’s scary as hell.

CHAPTER 16

LYRA

Iquickly realize that we’re headed north.

“This isn’t the way back to the office.”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No.”

“Are you kidnapping me?” I ask with a small smile.

“If I were, you’d be blindfolded.”

He follows this up with his patented almost nonexistent smile, a micro expression that passes for emotion when it comes to Julian Volkov. I’m starting to catalogue them. His “almost” smile is warmer, less guarded, and I rarely see it.

It’s a relief to see it now. This last week of avoidance and busyness had been almost too much to take. I’ve been playing it cool, but the moment Julian stepped into the foundation offices, it hit me how painfully much I’ve been missing him.

“Seriously, where are we going?”

“A place I want to show you. Not far from here.”

Part of me wants to press a little more. Something I’m learning about Julian, however, is that he gives information on his own time. And maybe I want to be surprised.

We cross the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Bronx. The neighborhood façade shifts—glass and steel giving way to brick homes and bodegas with colorful awnings, the tight grid of Manhattan relaxing into something more open. Julian navigates with ease—he never uses GPS, I’ve noticed. And the way he drives makes it clear he’s been here many times before.

Eventually, we pull up in front of a three-story brownstone on a tree-lined block in Mott Haven.

The sign out front reads:Irina’s House—A Home for Every Child.

Below it, in smaller letters:A project of the Irina Volkov Foundation.

“Julian…”