Page 57 of Feral King

I turn to see Lyra still at the window. But she’s no longer facing outward—she’d been watching the entire exchange with the detectives without moving or speaking. And theexpression on her face is precisely the one I was most afraid of—clarity.

Between the shooting at the venue and the grilling by the NYPD, she’s seeing all of me, and I can tell she doesn’t like it.

I want to cross the room and put my arms around her, tell her that she has nothing to worry about, that I’ll keep her safe from the dangerous parts of my life, letting her see only the good ones.

But I can’t make that promise.

And she knows it.

The drive to Astoria is quiet.

But it’s not like the charged silence from before, when the air was alive with unspoken words and desires waiting to be acted upon.

This is different. This is a tense, unpleasant silence. I watch Lyra out of the corner of my eye. She’s not mad, nor is she worried. And I can tell she’s made a decision.

I pull up in front of her building. The street is empty. No sedan, no watcher. My security team swept the block an hour ago, and I’ve ordered two guards to stay posted nearby.

"Lyra."

"Julian." She turns to me, her eyes exhausted but steady. "Thank you for getting us out of there safely today. For covering me. For… everything."

"Lyra—"

“I think things between us should stay professional. I’ll finish the fundraiser. But after that, we can discuss what’s next for me.”

“How do you mean?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“I think I want to move on from Volkov.”

She means from me. But I don’t say it out loud.

“I see.”

“Like I said, we can talk about it after the fundraiser. But for now…”

For now, we’re nothing. Just boss and employee. She doesn’t need to speak the words.

"If that's what you want," I reply.

"It's not about what I want. It's about what we have to do.”

She gets out of the car.

“Good night, Julian.”

“Good night, Lyra.”

She closes the door and walks into the building without looking back.

I sit in the car, engine running, hands on the wheel.

I should drive away. I should go to the safe house, debrief with the security team, and start the process of findingwhoever sent those SUVs to Red Hook. There's work to do. There's always work to do.

Instead, I pull into an open spot down the block, then I kill the engine.

The hours pass. The street empties. The lights in her apartment go on, then off. The bakery closes. The laundromat's fluorescent glow shuts down at midnight. A couple walks by with a dog. A delivery truck rumbles past at 1:15.

I watch all of it. I watch nothing. I watch her windows and think about the way her hands felt pressed against my ribs, slick with my blood, the worry in her eyes before she learned my wound was superficial.