Firstlife (8 page)

“Death match, it is. And look at me, willing to compromise. I really am the perfect guy.”

I do laugh this time. He's shameless.

He leads me down the hall, into the commons, just not the commons I'm used to seeing.

One corner of the room has been transformed. There's a small candlelit table with two cushioned chairs placed side by side. Platters of food occupy every inch of the tabletop. There's even a bottle of wine and a chocolate cake.

Cake! Is this heaven?

Killian doesn't lead me to the table. No, he leads me to the left, where a virtual tour is playing over the wall. One I've never seen before. A moonlit beach so realistic I can almost smell the salt and sand.

“You're going all out, right from the start,” I mutter. Waves dance over the shore, leaving lacy foam behind. Pinpricks of light crawl toward the water—glow-in-the-dark turtles! I coo with delight. “They're so beautiful.”

“Wouldn't you love to hold one?”

An-n-nd my delight fades. “Do you really think I'll be so easily manipulated?”

“You say
manipulated
. I say
rewarded
. You love the water. Don't try to deny it.”

I go rigid. Either he eavesdropped, which isn't likely—I would have noticed him nearby—or Vans's cameras and mics picked up what I said to Bow, and the information was given to Killian.

The leash on my temper begins to unravel. Needing distance, I walk to the next wall. People have set up camp around a crackling fire pit—people who are talking and laughing, enjoying Everlife.

At the next wall, a different group is playing a game that looks like a cross between volleyball and football. Tackle folleyball?

“This,” Killian says, tapping the fire pit, “is what awaits you in Myriad.”

“Unless Troika is right, and
this
,” I say, tapping the net, “is just an illusion.”

When he offers no reply, I turn to him. His gaze is locked on the pit. No, not the pit, I realize, but the people around it. Is that
longing
I detect from him? Maybe even a hint of envy?

“Earlier, you mentioned surfing,” I say. “Who taught you?”

A muscle tics beneath his eye. “I taught myself.”

I've most definitely stumbled onto a sensitive subject. “What about friends? Your parents?”

“What about
your
friends and family?”

Oh, no. We're not playing that game. “I'll answer your question if you answer mine.”

Several seconds pass in silence. Finally he says, “My father never wanted me, and my mother—” He presses his lips together, shakes his head. “Thought I could, realized I can't. I won't ask personal questions and you won't ask personal questions. Deal?” He takes my hand and ushers me to a chair.

“Deal.” I sit without protest and, as my heart aches for him—
poor boy, his dad never wanted him!
—I remind myself of a very important fact: Killian isn't my friend; he's bait.

I
must
remain detached.

My mouth waters, the scents stronger. “Let's eat.”

He claims his own chair and snaps his napkin over his lap. “Ladies first.”

“You'll probably come to regret that.” I fill my plate
and
a bowl with all kinds of goodies I haven't had in over a year. A slice of chocolate cake—priorities!—a scoop of chicken potpie, slice of chocolate cake, scoop of yam casserole, slice of chocolate cake, two scoops of mashed potatoes, a slice of chocolate cake, a scoop of buttery green beans, a slice of chocolate cake—

“Going to save any cake for me?”

“No, actually, I'm not. Mine.” I point my spoon in his direction. “You don't touch.”

He lifts his hands, palms out. “How long have you been a chocolate addict?”

“Since birth. The struggle is real.” I return my attention to my task. Now. Where was I? Oh, yes. Ten grapes, a slice of chocolate cake, ten strawberries, a slice of chocolate cake, and finally, to give this meal a health kick, a spoonful of pasta salad.

The problem? I have an odd number of cake slices.

I go ahead and take the final slice to even things out.

“There's no way you'll be able to eat all that.” He pours me a glass of wine. “You're too little.”

“I'll eat every crumb. And I'd like water to drink, please.”

“Well, I'd like your dress to spontaneously combust, but we don't always get what we want, now, do we?”

Zero! Or maybe this time around I should use
Vans
as my favorite four-letter curse word. Killian's one-track mind is going to cause
me
to spontaneously combust.

Is the plan to get me drunk? Make me vulnerable to suggestion?

“I'm underage.” Eighteen, the legal age for everything nowadays, can't get here fast enough. “If I drink any alcohol, I'll be breaking the law.”

“Sorry, lass, but that sounds like a you problem.”

So it's wine or nothing. Whatever. I'll sip. I won't let myself get drunk.

He
tsk-tsk
s. “Don't look so gloom and doom. Two or more glasses of wine a day can severely reduce your risk of giving a shit.”

Nice. I accept the glass and take my first taste of something alcoholic. Mmm. Wine is tasty. Notes of raspberry and walnut, sweet yet earthy. “Just so you know, I'm not discussing the Everlife with you.”

“What
are
you willing to discuss? You know what, never mind. You'll probably suggest the many ways to murder me.” He pushes his food around his plate before pinning me with a laser stare. “What if I said your allegiance to Myriad is a matter of life and death? Would you discuss the realms then?”

“Yes, but only to say you're being ridiculous, trying to give me a god complex so I'll feel important and believe that one measly girl will make a vast difference.”

The handle of his spoon bends. “One measly girl? Try one
stubborn
girl. Your continued refusal is causing all kinds of—” Once again he presses his lips together. “Myriad obviously needs you. They're going to a lot of trouble for you.”

I catch another hint of the longing and envy. Does he think no one needs him, no one would go to any trouble for him?

I sigh. I'm reading too much into his expressions, aren't I? Seeing what I want to see. Or even a reflection of my own emotions.

“How about we sit in silence?” I ask.

A voice spills over the intercom. “You will continue your conversation about the realms.” Dr. Vans, reminding me of where I am, who I'm with and the nefarious purpose of the evening.

My fingers tighten on my spoon with so much force I fear my knuckles will pop free of my skin. Of course Vans is listening to our every word, watching our every move.

“Did you know?” I ask, glaring at Killian.

“No,” he says, his teeth gritted. “He definitely isn't part of my plan.”

Well, well. An outright admission that there
is
a plan.

Intent on ignoring both males, I sling one arm around my plate, guarding the contents, and shovel in heaping bite after heaping bite. First the cake slices disappear...followed quickly by, well, everything else. When I finish, I moan with satisfaction. And regret. Mostly regret. I probably should have saved
something
for Bow.

As I wipe my mouth with my napkin, Killian chuckles.

“What?” I demand.

“
Now
you're a lady?”

I pat my stomach. “What? My gastrointestinal clock was ticking. I wanted a food baby.”

“Good thing I poked holes in the cake.”

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, and I can't stop it. I don't want to like this boy, but dang it, he's witty.

Then I remember Vans, and the urge to smile diminishes.

I gasp when Killian throws a plate at the cage-covered camera in the corner. A plate that clatters to the floor without shattering. The cage is unaffected, as well. Even still, the action makes us both feel better, and we share a look of understanding.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“I could remove my shirt and do push-ups, impressing you with my manly strength.”

I think he's kidding, but I'm still tempted. Watch him ripple and sweat? Yes, please. I force myself to say, “No, thanks.” An idea strikes, and I go with it. “I want to talk about your parents.” He's here to lure. I can't allow him to enjoy the experience, now, can I? “And I'm sticking to our rules. I'm not asking questions. I'm demanding.”

He flicks his tongue over an incisor. “Pick a different topic. Otherwise you'll be bored.”

“You mean adored.”

He snorts, even relaxes. Then he sighs, his stare seeming to drill into my soul. “My mother died before I had the chance to meet her, but my birth was recorded. I've watched the video so many times I've memorized every detail. At the end, she nuzzled my cheek and told me she'd never forget me. Now I wonder...”

A lump grows in my throat. Now he wonders, what? If she's Fused? If she remembers him?

I reach over and pat his hand. “I'm sorry for your pain.”

He searches my eyes—for what? “I think you mean that.”

“I do.”

We go quiet again, but this time, awareness crackles between us. Crackles over my skin, making me tingle.

“If you're not going to discuss the realms, you're going to do a trust-building exercise.” Vans's insistent voice makes us both flinch. “Ten, stand in front of Killian and fall backward. Killian, catch her before she falls.”

You've got to be kidding me.

Killian pops his jaw but stands. “If I wasn't eager to get my hands on you, I'd hunt the bastard down and choke him with his own intestines.”

My brain locks on one thought: Killian will soon have his hands on me.

I drain my glass before I, too, stand. What? I'm thirsty. A fog spills through my brain and a sweet voice whispers,
His towering height is a very good thing, there's nothing to be afraid of, and maybe you should hold on to his shirt. For balance.

No! I call foul!

The fog is clearly a whore galore, and I decide to teach her a lesson by stepping back...into my chair. Oops! My butt hits with a little too much force, and I wince.

Killian pulls me to my feet. “You're not getting out of this, lass.” He leads me away from the table. As he moves behind me—or rather he tries to move behind me—I turn with him. I don't want him at my back.

He has to know the problem, but rather than castigating me, he distracts me. “What kind of punishment were you given this morning? I've wondered all day.”

His blue-gold eyes sizzle with a shocking amount of anger. Anger on my behalf.

He has a protective streak, doesn't he?

Finally I turn. I don't give myself time to think about my actions. Here goes nothing. I...lean...back. My stomach leaps into my throat, and I honestly expect to hit the ground.

He catches me and smiles. “Well?”

I'm so relieved, I find myself saying, “I kept a calendar on my wall.” RIP, sweet calendar. “Vans had it washed away.”

Killian's brow furrows as he helps me straighten. “You screamed because of a calendar?”

“Well, it was a good calendar,” I say, defensive.

“Noted.” He twirls a finger, silently telling me to turn around. “What else has been done to you during your stay?”

“Just about everything you can imagine. Whippings, beatings. I've even been fried with a cattle prod.” I turn more easily this time. “Oh, and let's not forget the time I was waterboarded. So fun!”

Shut up!
common sense shouts. I'm oversharing when it's time to be a vault.

Oh, who cares? This is a wonderful day, and I love absolutely
everyone
!

“Dr. Vans has
waterboarded
you?” Killian asks, his voice so low, so silky, I'm almost hypnotized by it.

“Yep. But here's a better question. Are you ready for me?”

“Can anyone ever be ready for you, lass? But don't worry. I won't let you get hurt. You have my word.”

I hold my breath as I fall...fall...

Killian catches me again. This time, he spins me around, so that we're face-to-face. “Do you want me to kill Vans for you?”

Maybe
. I step closer, intending to reveal the most important piece of information in the history of the universe: his eyelashes are pretty and I'd like to measure them. Who am I kidding? I already know how long they are. Perfect inches. But I say, “There's a pond in my brain, and a lovely fog is dancing over the water.”

Killian looks at me as if I'm the best birthday present ever.

Wait. I planned to tell him something... “Eyelashes.”

“You're drunk,” he says.

“How dare you. I'm only
probably
drunk.” I reach out and trace a fingertip around each of his eyes.
Soft
eyelashes.

Frowning, he clasps my wrist and places my hand at my side. “Why didn't you fight back today?”

Fight back...fight back? Oh! Vans. “There's only so much I can do. I bet you've never been on the receiving end of an attack. You're so big.”

“Oh, I've been on the receiving end of an attack.” His anger returns in a flash. “I've also gone back and repaid the person responsible a thousand times over.”

I'm shivering. Why am I shivering? “Not one for mercy, huh?”

“Victors are adored, failures are abhorred.”

As many times as I've failed to escape the asylum and save myself from more pain, well, he must think the worst about me. “I'm going to disrespectfully disagree with you. If victory is achieved the wrong way, it's not really a victory at all.”

He arches a brow and sneers, “Your opinion is very en-
light-
ened.”