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
