Firstlife. Gena Showalter
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hoping to kick you while you’re down?”
His amusement does a disappearing act. Abracadabra...gone! He glares at me. “I’m done with this topic.”
The words are thrown at me. The same words I’ve thrown at Bow every time she’s hit a nerve; I know I’ve reached him, whether he’s willing to admit it or not.
“Okay, I’m going to break my own rule and discuss the realms.” I stretch out over the floor, more comfortable with him than I should be. And I can’t blame the alcohol. Stupid game! Killian caught me when he could have let me fall. “What made you side with Myriad?”
He leans back on his elbows, watching me warily. “There are too many reasons to list in a single evening.”
“Give me the highlights, then.” When he shakes his head, I say, “The top ten? Top two?”
“Why bother? My reasons won’t affect your decision.”
“So? Tell me anyway. I’m curious.” What remains unsaid: about you.
He gaze heats, as if he heard what I didn’t speak. “One. I’m more at ease in the dark. Two, Troika claims soul-fusion is a lie, but I know it’s real.”
Excitement turns the wine I’ve ingested into champagne—or what I imagine is champagne—the potent brew suddenly bubbling and effervescent in my veins. “You have concrete proof? Even though no other spirits have seen it happen and, from what I gather, the only way the people in Myriad know who’s Fused with whom is through guesstimates, matching the deaths in the realms with the births here.”
“I don’t have to see to believe. I’m sometimes pulled in two different directions.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t, and my excitement fizzles.
Treading carefully, remembering his mother, I say, “I’m often pulled in two different directions, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m Fused. It means I’m divided, the potential for good and evil running through my heart.”
He scowls at me. “Someone who refuses to see the truth will accept the lie.”
Well. That’s kind of deep for a boy who presented himself as a shallow he-slut. Also, it’s kind of true. “Someone who accepts the lie will never see the truth.”
“I have to be Fused. My mother has to be Fused.” His accent is thicker. “That is the truth.”
Poor boy, I think again. He’s holding on to his hope with everything he’s got. “I hope you’re right,” I say and I mean it.
He nudges my hip with his foot. “Half the things that come out of your mouth make me want to punch a wall, and the other half make me want to kiss you...and only sometimes to shut you up.”
I reel. He wants to kiss me? “I gather you don’t like someone mucking around in your head.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Not intentionally. Maybe.” His pretty eyelashes throw shadows over his cheeks, but the flicker of candlelight spilling from the table continually chases the darkness away with beams of gold.
He could be a poster boy for both realms. One moment he’s surrounded by darkness, the next he’s set free of the gloom. Radiant.
I lick my lips and ask, “Have you ever been in love?”
He gives me a strange look. “Why do you want to know?”
“Simple curiosity.”
“There’s nae such thing as simple curiosity. Either you’re analyzing me, or you’re interested in me.”
“Analyzing,” I rush out. Yes, yes. Surely that.
“Very well. The answer is yes I have, but no, I won’t give you any other details. Unless you’re willing to trade? My life story for your agreement to sign with Myriad.”
Zero! I’m beyond curious, but his price is too high. “You have to tell me without strings. We’re on a date, aren’t we?”
“No. We’re on a death match.”
Right. “So tell me about the girl, or I’ll scoop out your eyes with my spoon.”
“I’m pretty sure you ate your spoon.”
A statement I can’t refute, considering I don’t see the utensil anywhere.
Okay. That’s it. Wine and trust exercises make me stupid. Let’s put an end to this.
I push to my feet, sway just a little. I mean to say, I’m sure we’ve wasted enough of each other’s time. We’re parting ways. But he peers up at me, those long lashes teasing me, and what I end up saying is, “You should probably shave your eyelashes. They’re distracting. Good night.”
“Sit down, Ms. Lockwood,” Dr. Vans commands. “The date isn’t over.”
Killian snaps his teeth at the camera before he stands. He peers at me, his eyelids hooded, his lips pink and moist—he’s just run his tongue over them. “I could make you feel good, Ten. After you sober up.” And his voice...his voice is already in bed, naked and waiting for me.
I don’t want a naked boy in bed, waiting for me. Do I?
Oh! Oh! And his scent. Peat smoke and heather wraps around me, a delicious smoke that joins the fog in my head.
“You want to feel good...don’t you?” He’s practically purring.
I try not to shiver. I shiver a lot. The charmer is back, and he’s turned on high.
Turned on? Bad choice of phrase. What is wrong with me?
“I can make myself feel good,” I say and stop breathing. Please tell me I didn’t just utter those words. “How long will you make me feel good?”
“Does it matter? Good is good.”
A nonanswer that is more telling than he probably realizes. He’ll hit and run, and I’ll be left to deal with yet another rejection. “It matters, because I matter. To me! You’ll be done with me the moment I sign with Myriad. Well, I’m going to tell you a secret, and you have to keep it.” I cup my hands around my mouth and whisper-yell, “I may never sign with one of the realms.” Take that, Vans.
Killian’s features twist in a glower. “Why would you do that to yourself? Many Ends offers only pain and suffering.”
“Many Ends may not be real.” I push him away, but he’s strong and backs up only because he chooses. “I just want the freedom to make my own choice without interference. That’s all.”
“You have freedom. You have freedom right now. You had freedom yesterday, and the day before and the day before that. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, you have freedom of choice. You’re so afraid of making the wrong decision, you’re actually stagnant.”
I’m now astounded. He—the evil charmer—nailed it. I have the power to make my own decision any day...any second, but I haven’t done it, because I’ve let my doubts become quicksand at my feet.
Needing to get away before I throw myself at him and hug him, I inch around him. “I’m going to think about what you said...tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. I’m pre-hungover.”
He follows me, reaches out and sifts the ends of my hair through his fingers. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Too bad,” I say, now backing away from him. “This death match is officially over.” Sadly, I didn’t win. But then, neither did he. We’ve reached a draw.
“Ms. Lockwood,” Dr. Vans says.
I flip him off via the camera, continuing down the hall, heading for my cell.