Page 58 of Feral King

She told me to keep it professional. She told me to step back.

She didn't tell me to stop protecting her.

At 3:47 a.m., my phone buzzes.

It’s Ethan.

Just got word from the security team. They tracked down one of the cars to a warehouse in Sunset Park. Waiting on your call.

I close my eyes for a moment, then turn my attention to Lyra’s darkened windows. I think of her in bed, her warmth, her touch.

That’s all I want.

But I can’t have it.

What I can have is revenge.

I start the engine, then text back four words:I'm on my way.

The drive to Sunset Park takes twenty-two minutes. I spend every one of them thinking about Lyra's hands on my ribs and the look on her face when she said,I can't do this.

What is about to happen in that warehouse won't change her mind. It won't make her safe. It won't undo the bullet or the blood or the look in her eyes.

But it will make sure the men who put that look there never put it on anyone's face again. I’ll find out who was behind the shooting and make sure they pay.

When I reach the warehouse, I open my glove compartment. Inside is a K-Bar and a Glock. I take both.

I step out of the car. The night is cool, the sky cloudless.

Time to get to work.

CHAPTER 20

LYRA

The Whitmore on West 26th Street is smaller than the Red Hook venue but better in every way that matters—ground-floor access, interior walls instead of industrial glass, and a security layout that I made sure to run by Ethan.

The guy’s impressive—he was shot four days ago and he’s reviewing schematics at two in the morning. I’m starting to understand why Julian trusts him with his life.

It’s a gorgeous but slightly chilly morning. I’m walking south on Sixth Avenue, coffee in one hand, revised seating chart in the other, mentally running through the AV setup for the stage, when a figure falls into step beside me.

“Lyra, we need to talk.”

I don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Alexander.

I turn my head just enough to see that he’s dressed in a sharp, navy peacoat and designer sunglasses. He has theeasy stride of someone who has total confidence in himself. He looks good, no sense in denying it.

But that’s the trap. Your brain sees someone like him—polished, poised—and assumes that he’s got everything together. Only when it’s too late do you realize that’s not the case at all.

“No, we don’t,” I say and keep walking.

“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re not asking. You’re ambushing me on the street.”

“Well, I ambushed, then I asked. How else was I supposed to find you?”