Firstlife. Gena Showalter

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