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
