Page 95 of Feral King

When we get to the car, Ethan opens the door and I slide into my seat. As soon as he shuts it, I place my hand on mystomach the way I’ve done so many times since hearing the news.

I’m planning and plotting, trying to see three moves ahead again. And I have to get it right. Because I’m not the only one I need to be watching out for.

CHAPTER 35

LYRA

It’s 9 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I’ve made a decision: The foundation’s next gala is going to be even bigger than the last.

A wry smile spreads across my face as I think it over, my hand wrapped around a cup of ginger tea, a spreadsheet open on the laptop in front of me.

The last Irina fundraiser proved something. Not just to Julian, Elena and the donors, but to me.

And it’s that I’m good at this. Really good.

Not just passable or adequate or halfway decent… but great. Great in the way that this could be my calling. Sure, the last event had a drawback in terms of the shooting. But thankfully, the incident happened outside and after most of the guests had left.

I haven’t heard much about the shooting. But the event itself? It was a smash.

I have the kind of skill that means kids’ lives get saved, they become better, happier, and safer people.

And now that I know what I’m capable of, I want to do more. I want to do bigger venues, have bigger guest lists. I want to pack these events full of the wealthiest people in the city and get them to open their wallets for those less fortunate.

I’m hard at work, filling out another spreadsheet with a possible guest list for the next event, cross-referencing donor tiers, when the office goes eerily quiet. Not gradually, but all at once.

It’s the sudden kind of quiet that I know all too well at this point—the kind that happens whenever Julian walks into a room. It comes with a certain shift, like the world itself is rearranging to accommodate him.

I look up. Sure enough, he’s standing at my doorway with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, a corner of the North Star tattoo just visible above the collar of his shirt. He’s holding two things—a green smoothie, and a brown paper bag that holds something that smells absolutely delicious.

“You skipped breakfast,” he says.

“Not true. I had ginger tea.” I say, holding up my mug.

“That’s not breakfast. That’s flavored water.”

He sets the smoothie and the bag on my desk. I open the bag and peek inside. Inside is a warm croissant, butter on the side, and a small fruit and yogurt parfait.

“Eat.”

“You’re managing my meals now?”

“I’m ensuring that the mother of my child isn’t existing off ginger tea and David bars.”

He pulls a chair from the corner and sits across from me. He settles in, unhurried and casual.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Nauseous. Tired. My boobs hurt, and I cried at an ad I saw on YouTube for freaking dog food. I’m not going to discuss that one.”

The almost-smile appears. “Noted.”

“And how areyoufeeling?” I ask.

He shifts in his seat, crossing an ankle over a knee.

“Concerned.”

“About the council?”