Page 82 of Feral King

When I stop in front of it, it catches my reflection in a way I don’t like. I look flushed, tired. Laura’s comment regarding my dress echoes in my mind.

It’s doing quite a bit of heavy lifting, isn’t it?

I stare at my reflection, and for a moment I see what they all want me to see—too much. Too wide at the hips, too soft at the waist, too visible, too present. A woman who takes up more space than she should, more space than she deserves.

Then Julian appears behind me in the mirror. He doesn’t touch me. He just standsthere, looking at the same reflection that I am. But it’s clear that he sees something very different.

“You know what I see?” he asks.

“Julian, you don’t nee?—”

“I see the woman who caught a Dobrov plant in the seating chart. I see the woman who rebuilt this event from scratch after a drive-by shooting. I see the woman who flew to New Orleans on zero notice and held her family together in a hospital waiting room. I see the woman who inspired 300 of the most powerful people in this city to open their wallets for children they don’t even know, children they’ll likely never meet.”

My eyes sting and I blink the tears away.

“That’s who I see in the mirror,” he says. “Not whatever they tried tomakeyou see.”

He’s not done.

“You’re beautiful. Not despite anything either. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I want nothing more than for you to ignore anyone who tries to tell you you’re less than or not good enough. Or too much.”

I look at my reflection again—my curves accentuated by the midnight blue gown, the body beneath the silk that Julian Volkov worships.

And I smile.

Then I turn away from the mirror.

“Let’s go.”

He offers me his arm, and I take it.

The front doors open onto West 26th Street, the night exploding into light as soon as we cross the threshold. Photographers—at least two dozen—are lined up behind a rope barrier, cameras flashing one after the other.

There are reporters with microphones and a local news crew with shoulder-mounted cameras. The success of the Irina Volkov Foundation fundraiser seems to have already hit social media and newsrooms.

I can feel the story writing itself in real time:

Volkov heir and the mystery woman behind the Foundation’s triumphant return. Who is she?

I’m smiling. And as much as I don’t want to admit that this is kind of a buzz—fun, and a little intoxicating—I have togive in a little. The gala was a smash hit, and people are going to be talking about it. Aboutme.

That means more events, more buzz, more publicity. My head’s spinning, and I thank God that Julian’s arm is around my waist, keeping me steady.

The cameras flash. I don’t flinch, don’t angle, don’t try to make myself smaller. I walk beside Julian like I belong there—because Ido.

Then the night cracks open.

The first gunshot comes from somewhere off to the left. It’s sharp and percussive, and I hate that I know instantly, from experience, what a gunshot sounds like. The second shot follows half a second later. The third shatters the window of a parked car at the curb.

Screaming follows instantly. The crowd outside the venue explodes into total chaos. Photographers and reporters begin to run. One of them goes down—hit or tripped; I can’t tell.

Two masked figures emerge from a dark van across the street.

Julian moves before I can think. He shoves me behind him and takes out his gun, returning fire. Two shots, aimed right at the van. His other arm is holding me down and pushing me back at the same time.

“Inside!” he shouts. “Get inside—now!”

Bullets punch into the brick above the entrance. Julian fires again, and one of the masked figures stumble. But the other keeps shooting. Glass shatters behind us. I hear Ethanshouting orders, then more gunfire, before Julian pulls me through a side door into a service corridor.