Page 49 of Feral King

“License plate. Read it to me.”

I squint. “New York plates. Uh, A, K, 7?—”

“That’s enough.”

He accelerates, driving past my building without stopping. I glance up at the windows of my apartment, wondering with horror if there’s someone in there, waiting for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Julian slips out his phone and dials.

“Ethan. Navy sedan, 30th Avenue; same position as before. New York plates, Alpha-Kilo-seven series. I want an ID before I get back into the city.”

He hangs up. Before long, we’re back on the Queensboro Bridge, heading into Manhattan this time. The city swallows us in traffic and noise as I sit there with my heart pounding and his hand still on my thigh. I don’t want it to move.

“Julian. This is the second time.”

“I know.”

“Someone’s watching my apartment.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it’s Dobrov?”

“Possibly.” His tone is even and calm, which is exactly what I need. “Or possibly someone working for Alexander. Possibly both.” His jaw is clenched. “You’re not going home tonight.”

“Julian—”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

I should argue. I’ve been arguing with him since that night in the alley, the night the first watcher was spotted outside of my apartment. This is my independence we’re talkingabout here—my autonomy, my ability to take the subway without needing a damn escort.

But this is the second incident of someone being outside my apartment. And this comes just hours after I learned from the seating chart that Julian may have people who want to do him harm. I want to kick and thrash against these new boundaries of my life, but I don’t. This is Julian’s world, and I’m a part of it now.

“Where are we going?”

“My place.”

His place turns out to be a penthouse in Tribeca. Of course, it is. The elevator opens directly into the apartment, a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. Minimal expensive furniture, simple art on the walls, and a kitchen that I can tell is barely used.

It’s clean, masculine, and impressive. I’m not surprised, considering the man who lives here.

“There’s plenty of space,” he says. “If you go upstairs and take a left, you can have that whole wing to yourself. And the building is one of the most secure in the city.”

But I’m not interested in the rest of the apartment right now. What’s caught my eye is a photograph on the wall near the stairwell. It’s of a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, holding a boy of maybe seven on her lap.

Irina and Julian.

I approach it slowly, stopping in front of it. Julian steps up behind me.

“She was beautiful.”

“Yes.” I can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. I break out into goosebumps, wishing he’d wrap his arms around me. “She would’ve liked you.”

“Your aunt said the same thing.”

“She’s usually right about such matters.”

I turn around, his musky scent enveloping me, along with his quiet intensity. He gazes into my eyes, and damn, I feel like I’m going to melt.

“Julian.”