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chapter four

“What is isn’t always what’s supposed to be.”

—Troika

I watch him. At lunch and dinner that day, I watch Killian. When he talks to girls, he seems utterly absorbed in the conversation, as if every word spoken is a secret he has to know. And the girls eat it up. He makes them feel special, I can tell. They preen for him. But those girls...they aren’t special to him. I can tell that, too.

He’s too aware of the world around him, his hand never far from his pocket, as if he has a weapon hidden inside. As if he expects to be ambushed at any moment. As if he wants to be ambushed.

Anytime the girl looks away from him—which isn’t often—his gaze finds me. He winks. He knows I’m watching him, and he wants me to know he knows.

His confidence lends him an aura of power and, someone please help me, I admire it.

Later that same evening, Vans does as promised and arranges my “date” with Killian. The doc is upping his game.

First, Nurse Ratched delivers a dress to my cell. A pink sundress. Pink. With ruffles and lace. I grimace. I’ll be the prettiest princess in the asylum.

Her parting words are both a threat (to me) and a triumph (to her.) “You can wear it...or you can go naked. Your choice.”

A red haze descends over my vision. A choice that isn’t really a choice is a violation of my rights.

What rights?

“Wow,” Bow says, looking me over after I’ve changed. “A make-out session would not be out of pity today.”

“Um. Thanks?” I smooth my hands over the ultrasoft fabric. “I feel ridiculous.”

“What’s the occasion?”

As I explain today’s therapy session, her eyes narrow.

“Son of a Myriad-troll,” she mutters. She’s sprawled atop her bed. “Wonder how much Mr. Flynn had to pay for that privilege.”

I spread my arms wide. “Because wanting me is completely unfeasible?”

She closes her eyes as she shakes her head. “Sorry. Sorry. You’re hot. You’re awesome, and I know he craves a taste of you. Who wouldn’t? But he’s a piece of scum, and he always has ulterior motives.”

A grumbled apology, but an apology nonetheless.

“You’re forgiven. I guess.” I mean, even I’m wondering why Killian has turned his predatory sights to me. “Tell me your history with the guy.”

She growls low in her throat. “He sucks. That’s all you need to know.”

This girl has repeatedly pried open my secrets with a crowbar. She doesn’t get to keep her own. “Don’t you want to help me build extra defenses against him?”

“Are your current defenses in danger of crumbling?”

No. Absolutely not. But... “Do you really want to take the chance? There’s something about him...”

She points a finger at me. “Is that breathlessness I hear in your tone, Lockwood?”

What? “No!” Me? Breathless? Never! “I’m as hard as steel.”

She punches her mattress, the springs squeaking. “You want details, fine. He stabbed his best friend in the back—twice! He’s selfish and cruel. He uses girls to get what he wants, and then he discards them.”

“Are you one of the girls he used and discarded?” I ask gently.

“No! Gross! I’ve never jonesed for his scones.” She shudders. “It’s just...he’ll sleep with you and leave you brokenhearted in the rubble that has become your life.”

Bow, who is obviously biased, has probably seen a distorted version of the truth. She’s never seen into Killian’s heart.

Or maybe I’m making excuses for the guy.

“If getting down and dirty is his main objective, I’m the last girl he should target.” I possessed the common sense and wherewithal to stop James every time his hands wandered past my shoulders, and I loved him.

And unlike Killian, James looked at me as if he adored me. He smiled with me, not at me. He whispered beautiful things in my ear...

So lovely.

So soft.

So perfect.

I’d been as mesmerized as I was flustered.

“I’ll never say yes,” I add.

“Famous last words. If you find yourself tempted, remember Killian is selfish in bed,” Bow says, as smoothly as if we’re discussing our favorite kind of donuts. “Oh. And I hear he’s small. Like, micropenis small.”

I roll my eyes. “Can you tell me something about him that doesn’t have anything to do with sex?”

“All right. For starters, he’s going into this thinking you’re going to fall for him and do anything to spend eternity with him.”

“Why does he even care? He’s human. If I sign with Myriad to be with him—” no boy is ever going to factor into my decision, because they don’t come with a guarantee, either “—he won’t be rewarded.”

She stands and walks over to pat me on my cheek. “Wow. You’re, like, Super Naive Girl.”

In the back of my mind, I note the temperature of her skin. Like James, she’s too cool, as if she’s incapable of absorbing heat.

Try to warm me up, James used to say.

“So... Killian will be rewarded?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. Everything we do has a consequence. Good or bad. In Firstlife and Everlife.” She tilts her head and studies me more intently. “Who’s your ML?”

“I’ve always had two at a time. Many have come and gone, but one has always remained the same. Madame Pearl Bennett.” A flawless blonde with a warm smile.

Distaste darkens Bow’s features. “Madame is the title for a Leader, which is step above a Laborer.”

“Yes.” A fact I’d pointed out to Madame Bennett as soon as I learned about the different positions. She’d smiled sweetly and said, You, my beauty, are special. I want to oversee your case myself.

I’d asked what made me so special, and her smile had only grown. You remind me of someone I loved and like her, you’re going to do great things for our realm.

I’d adored her. Once. She was the one who told my parents to send me to Prynne. I’d heard them talking. At first, my dad resisted the idea. When Madame promised him the experience would toughen me up, help me become the person I was meant to be, and snap me out of my pouty teenage refusal to sign with Myriad, he finally relented. Then he convinced my mother.

“Well,” Bow says, and I can’t tell what emotion she’s projecting. I only know it’s negative. “You must be as important to Myriad as you are to Troika. No one I know has ever had two MLs.”

Me, either. But... “Myriad doesn’t have Conduits.”

“No, they have Abrogates. Those who extinguish the light. The most powerful people in their realm.” She glares at me. “If you sign with Myriad, you won’t only deny Troika a Conduit, you’ll drain the Conduits we do have.”

I rub the back of my neck. “What would happen then?”

“Troika would plunge into darkness right alongside Myriad. It’s what the other realm has always wanted. It’s what we’ve always fought.” Bow bites her lower lip. “Are you sure you can resist Killian’s...charms?”

“Definitely.” His eyes make my blood sing... “Possibly. Hopefully.” His smirking mouth and blatant innuendos make my blood boil... “Definitely.”

She pushes out a heavy breath. “Do you have any experience with the opposite sex?”

“I’ve had a boyfriend,” I tell her, suddenly defensive.

“Here? He was human?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

“How else? I was allowed to touch him.” Every Laborer comes to earth in a Shell, a humanoid outer casing that somehow makes a spirit tangible to the physical world.

Despite that tangibility, we’re forbidden from touching the Shells for any reason. Without being told why!

She crosses her arms. “What was he like? This boyfriend?”

“His name was James. I met him my first week. He snuck me food when I was starved and salve every time I was beaten.” The true miracle? In the quiet of the night, he made me laugh. “Why the curiosity about him?”

“Duh. I’m nosy. You know this. Was he Unsigned?”

“No. He was secretly a Myriad loyalist—” Vans would have fired him if he’d known “—but he rarely talked realm business with me.” He saw me, not a potential realm-mate.

“Ah.” She makes a face as she nods. “He was doing the long con.”

“Excuse me?” What did that mean?

“The long con requires more planning and preparation. A longer window of interaction with a target as well as a longer period of time to execute the main objective—signing you.”

White-hot anger sparks. “Not everyone is obsessed with eternity.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t the guy who claimed to love you want you to be with him forever? And you once mentioned bonuses... I bet staff and inmates alike receive them.”

She...she... Oh! She’s ticking me off!

“What else did you like about him?”

“Screw you. I’m done with this subject.”

She gives a regal wave of her hand, all the queen wishes you to proceed. “Was he staff or inmate?”

“Staff. And he lived for me—then he died for me.” Apparently I’m not done with the subject. My chin trembles, my defensive tone echoing in my ears. “He was killed when he aided my escape attempt.”

Nine months have passed since Dr. Vans shot him in the chest.

A baby spends nine months in a mother’s womb. The phrase “on cloud nine” means to be happy or euphoric.

I’m anything but happy. Maybe I should sign with Myriad. I’ll get to see James again.

Part of me expected him to visit at least once. Even though the realms claim loved ones can damage a cause far worse than a stranger, so laws are in place to prevent after-death interactions.

“You saw his actions,” Bow says, “but not his heart.”

Is she serious? “Actions reveal heart.”

“Not always. Deception is all about perception.”

Okay. That’s it. “I’m done with this subject.” I mean it this time.

“Of course you are.” With an unfeminine grunt, she falls onto her pillow. “You’re a runner.”

The words are like a punch to the gut. “I’m a fighter.”

“Ha! Fighters take a stand.”

I throw myself on my bed and peer up at the ceiling, wishing I lived in a time before the realms existed. Not that there was such a time. There is and has always been a Firstking. He created both Myriad and Troika, a realm to give each of his sons. Then he created the Land of the Harvest and humans. Subjects to inhabit the kingdoms—after they picked a kingdom.

Of course, one brother soon plotted to destroy the other, hoping to rule both realms, and a war ignited.

Guess who says which brother is at fault?

Many Ends was (supposedly) created for criminals, but ultimately became the home for the Unsigned.

“Tenley Lockwood. You are expected in the commons.” The heavily accented female voice suddenly spills from the speakers strategically placed in our ceiling. Next, the door opens.

Well, zero. The time has come.

I give myself a pep talk: A pretty face won’t sway you, and pretty words won’t affect you. You will remain distanced. No boy is worth the hardships that accompany him—not here.

“Be careful.” Bow’s anger drains, and worry takes its place. “Do you have steel panties? If yes, put them on right now.”

I snort and rush into the hall, where I find Killian waiting for me. His eyes aren’t on me, but Bow, and they’re crackling with fury. His hands are balled into fists, ready to deliver.

Bow remains in place, staring back through slitted lids, but her hands aren’t balled, and she doesn’t try to sneak out and murder him, so I consider it a major improvement.

Like me, Killian has been relieved of his jumpsuit. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and both fit him to perfection. I mean, wow. If he was beautiful before, he’s exquisite now. He’s a boy—man—without equal.

“How old are you?” I find myself asking.

“Nineteen.” When his blue-gold gaze finally finds me, he gives me a once—twice—over and smiles. “For once, I’m glad for my lack of years.”

So he can score without being a major creeper? “You’re a legal adult.”

“And you’re not. I know. Opposites attract.”

“I mean, no one can force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Why are you here?” I asked before, but he only fed me a bunch of bull. “If you want to survive the evening with all your parts intact, answer honestly.”

His smile returns as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and hikes his shoulders in a shrug.

Irritating! “Be a big boy and use your words.”

“Maybe Vans is paying me to beguile you. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Yes! And what if James was paid to do the same?

Argh! Bow! She’s in my head.

Killian offers me his tattooed hand. “By the way, you should always wear pink, lass.”

My stupid heart stutters and my stupid hand trembles as I link our fingers. His skin is as cold as Bow’s and James’s. That’s weird, right? Or am I the weird one?

“I shouldn’t have to mention this, but hey, why leave anything to chance? This isn’t a real date.”

“Don’t like the label? Fine. We’ll give it a new one. How about pants party for two?”

I almost laugh. Almost. “I’m not wearing pants.”

“Underpants?”

“I think I prefer the term death match.”

“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-tsks. “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.”

Ugh. Do I sound like a Troikan? Bow must be rubbing off on me.

“Your turn,” I say. “Turn around.”

“You really think you can catch me?”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

“And yet I’m still not reassured.”

I twirl my finger.

He rotates slowly, reluctantly. “By the way, victory is victory. I end up on top, not the bottom.”

“On top of what? The pile of heartbreak and suffering you leave in your wake?”

He opens his mouth, closes it with a snap—and falls.

I catch him, but he’s heavy, heavier than I expected. He keeps falling, taking me with him. We hit the ground and he laughs, then I laugh. We remain on the floor in a tangle of limbs.

“I’m beginning to think,” I say, “Might Equals Right should mean the strong are tasked with the protection of the weak, because the strong aren’t always strong and the weak aren’t always weak. Everyone stumbles. And one day, when you stumble—and you will—you’ll need someone to help you stand. Will there be anyone eager to do so, or will there be a line of people 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.