“Not takin’ a crack at ya,” he says. “Just a wee bit curious, tis all.”

  “Can you not—” I frown, wishing it wasn’t so easy for him to get under my skin.

  Killian looks at me. “Yes? You were sayin’ somethin’?”

  I huff out a breath and start again. “Can you just stop with the fake accent and speak in your normal voice for once?”

  Killian rakes a hand through his curls and shifts so that he’s facing me. “And what makes you think that’s not my normal voice? Why do you assume this is the real one?”

  Ugh. Why did I ever agree to this? And more importantly, why am I still agreeing?

  “Sorry to annoy ya,” he says. “Just trying to get to know you better tis all. Seein’ as how yer pretty much my only friend ’ere.”

  “So, that’s where you decide to land?” I say. “With a hybrid accent?”

  “Just tryin’ ta please us both.” He shrugs.

  “Mason taught me to drive,” I say. “Happy now?”

  Killian takes a moment to consider, then says, “And who taught him?”

  “His grandma,” I say, remembering how excited Mason was when he learned to parallel park and tried to teach me. But despite giving it my best shot, I never mastered that skill.

  “Well, that explains it.” Killian nods.

  I shoot him a sharp look. “That sounds like ageism,” I snap, but Killian dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

  “Not at all. Just pointing out your driving style.”

  “My driving style?”

  “You go about it like a real proper lady. Yer spine straight, eyes diligently surveying the path ahead, obeying all the rules—even when there aren’t any.”

  “That’s called being a safe driver,” I grumble. “Didn’t realize it was considered a style.”

  “Look at your hands.” Killian cocks a thumb toward the steering wheel. “From the moment you sat down, they haven’t once shifted.”

  My first instinct is to snap back, but instead, I set my focus on the narrow aisle before me. With the low sloped ceiling and notable lack of windows, it’s more like a tunnel. Where it leads is anyone’s guess. Or make that my guess, since Killian clearly knows.

  “Are you always such a stickler for the rules, Shiv?” Killian asks, and though I refuse to look at him, from his tone I can tell he’s wearing one of his flirtatious grins. Charisma and charm are pretty much his default. “Don’t you ever want to break one of those rules and see what might happen?”

  Is he for real? I fight the urge to roll my eyes, since it’ll only succeed in egging him on. Instead, I clear my throat and say, “I’ve broken plenty of rules. How do you think I ended up here?”

  “Here with me?” He leans closer, practically lifting off his seat.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You know exactly what I meant. In fact—”

  Before I can go on to outline all the rules I used to break before I was whisked away to this place, Killian says, “Here’s good. Park anywhere. It’s not like we’ll be returning this way.”

  I look at him, confused.

  “We took the scenic route.”

  I stop the cart, leaving it in the middle of the pathway.

  “Just trying to look out for you, Shiv, by making sure no one saw us together. Also, if I may be so bold, it gave me a chance to get to know you better.”

  “Like how I learned to drive?”

  Killian laughs and climbs out of the cart.

  I follow his lead, minus the laugh.

  “That, along with a few other things…” He smiles mysteriously.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me everything your razor-sharp observation skills managed to glean about me.”

  “Not sure you could handle it.” He grins in a way that lights up his whole face.

  “Try me,” I say, immune to the glowy magnetism he so naturally emits.

  “Okay.” He nods. “Here’s one: whenever you start to feel nervous or unsafe—or, in this case, both—your voice rises higher than usual, and you take on a bit of an attitude.”

  Slowly, I lift my gaze to meet his. Am I really that transparent?

  “Not to worry.” He gives a quick wave of his hand. “I find it charming when you get all feisty like that. Just consider it one more secret we’ll keep between us. Though, I might say, they’re really starting to pile up. Still, for now, it’s best if you try to relax so you’ll be in the right frame of mind when you see what comes next.”

  Something about the way he said that gives me pause. What exactly does come next?

  Without another word, Killian leads me down the tunnel before stopping at a door that manages to merge so seamlessly with the wall, I could’ve easily walked right by it and never noticed it was there. Even the keypad beside it blends in. “Brace yourself,” he says.

  My belly clenches with nerves. “I’m not sure how to take that,” I say.

  Killian regards me from over his shoulder. “If I were you, I’d take it seriously. And, for the record, you should always take me seriously. Except when I’m joking, of course. But I’m sure you can tell the difference by now.”

  There’s an undeniable charge in his voice, and there’s no missing the flame in his gaze that burns brighter than ever. I have no idea how to read him; my anxiety is getting the best of me, and Killian notices immediately.

  “Look,” he says. “I get that you’re feeling out of your depth. But I promise, you’re safe. So you can stop looking at me like that.” He veers so close I can feel the warmth of his breath wafting over my cheek.

  “And how exactly am I looking at you?” I ask, striving for imperious and missing it by a mile.

  “Like you can’t decide whether you want to kiss me or whack me over the head and run for your life.”

  In an instant, my gaze turns to frost. He’s trying to keep me as unsteady in my thinking as I am on my feet. Killian lives for moments like this. But we’ve played this game before, and he’s not nearly as crafty of an opponent as he obviously thinks.

  “Trust me,” I say. “Kissing you is not on the menu. I mean, no offense, but once was more than enough.”

  Killian’s lips pull into a grin. “Actually, you kissed me twice, Shiv. But no need to split hairs over small details.”

  Against my better judgment, I roll my eyes and huff under my breath.

  “Oh, and one last thing—you still got yer slab?”

  I nod, not sure I understand what he’s getting at.

  “Then you can set your mind at ease.” He nods. “Nothing terrible can happen to you so long as they’re able to track you.” Reading the confused look on my face, he says, “You think Arthur gave you that tablet as a convenient way to send messages and read his inspirational quotes every day? He’s tracking you, Shiv. Tracking all of us. Of course, this place is loaded with surveillance cameras, but the slab makes it that much easier to keep tabs on your whereabouts.”

  If that was meant to comfort, it pretty much did the opposite. And though Braxton once told me something similar, when he said it, it felt more like a safety precaution and less like an alarming privacy infringement.

  But before I have a chance to respond, Killian presses his thumb to the keypad, the door swings open, and with a quick intake of breath, I step into a whole other world.

  If life is a game of cards, we are born

  without knowledge of the rules.

  Yet we must play our hand.

  —Niki de Saint Phalle

  12

  How the other half lives.

  It’s the first thought that springs to mind, even though I’m not entirely sure what it means, much less who this other half might be.

  My gaze wanders down a wide hall with cobblestone floors and quaint, old-timey storefronts with colorful shutters and doors. In the distance, there’s a cluster of cute, thatched-roof dorms, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s another one of Arthur’s holograms.

  As if reading my mind, Killian says, “It’s all real. Well, except for the sky, of course.”

  He points toward a ceiling that’s painted to mimic a nice sunny day. Just after he’s said it, the hologram clouds begin to shift as a light breeze suddenly kicks into play. When those same clouds cover the beam of light standing in for the sun, the entire space dims.

  I look at Killian and say, “I feel like we’ve just traveled back a few centuries, but we did it by golf cart instead of the launchpad.”

  “In a way, we have.” Killian nods, looking pleased with himself. “I like to think of it as the forgotten world. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers it’s here.”

  I step deeper into the space. It’s impossible to take it all in with one glance.

  “But what exactly is this?” I ask, gesturing toward a man darting out of a pub dressed in clothes from a time long before zippers were invented. He looks like an extra who just wandered off the set of some historical drama. “Like that guy—does he live here? And why haven’t I heard of this place before now?”

  Killian grins. “It’s the best-kept secret in all of Gray Wolf.”

  “So how did you find it?” I turn to him, noting how the spark in his gaze instantly snuffs.

  “I used to live here,” he says.

  I stare at him, waiting for more. But he just places a hand on my elbow and steers me toward a pub with a sign overhead that reads The Hideaway.

  “While I promise to answer your questions,” he says. “Or at least some of them. The first order of business is getting me hands on some coffee and sumptin’ to fill up me belly.”

  We enter the sort of old-fashioned tavern I’ve only seen in movies. The lighting is sparse, the floors are made of rough wooden planks, and the cream-colored walls look as though they were molded by hand. And there’s no missing the way everyone smiles and waves the moment they see Killian.

  “What are you, some kind of conquering hero?” I ask as Killian leads me to a small table situated by the far wall.

  It’s not until we’re settled and Killian’s ordered us coffees that he leans toward me and says, “You have no idea just how close you are to the truth.”

  The words float between us. But exactly which truth is he referring to?

  The truth of him being a conquering hero?

  Or something else I might’ve said earlier?

  Before I have a chance to ask, the waitress is back. Only this time, the corseted top of her bar wench uniform is pulled so low, her abundant cleavage is precariously close to spilling out.

  She plops my mug before me, sending a splash of foam dripping over the sides. Though it’s not like she’s noticed. She’s focused entirely on Killian, taking great care to serve him his latte as the two of them speak in a language I don’t understand.

  At one point, Killian pauses the conversation to say, “How do you feel about shepherd’s pie?”

  I shrug. “Does it make for a good breakfast?” I ask, realizing I got so sidetracked, I missed that meal entirely.

  “It makes for a good everything,” Killian says. When he returns to the waitress, I assume he’s placing an order, but honestly, I can’t say for sure. Though I do catch the lingering look she gives him as she walks away and the wink of appreciation he shoots her in return.

  As soon as she’s gone, I say, “Good friend of yours?”

  Killian tips his mug toward me, then takes a slow sip. Using the back of his hand, he wipes a smudge of foam from his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous, Shiv.”

  I roll my eyes, take a tentative sip of my own coffee. Then, after blowing a cooling breath across the top, I chase it with another. “What language were you speaking?”

  Killian regards me with a look of amusement. “What language do you think it was?”

  I shrug. “I thought I recognized a word or two, but—”

  “We were speaking English. Just not the sort you’re used to. Not your standard Southern California drawl.” He pronounces that last part like some stereotypical surfer after one too many hits of a bong. “My friend Maisie there”—he jabs a thumb in the general direction of the bar—“she hails from Scotland.” He finishes with an exaggerated brogue.

  “And you—are you from Scotland, too?”

  “Aye.” He nods. “I’m from here, there, and everywhere.”

  I study him for a moment. Where Killian’s concerned, the truth is always so slippery, and he works hard to keep it that way.

  He settles back in his seat and savors a few sips of his drink. Then, peering at me from over the top of his mug, he says, “And to answer your question, yes. Maisie is a good friend. Unlike the posh world where you reside, I have many friends in these parts.”

  I’m struck by what he just said. Though I’ve never visited Killian’s room, I guess I assumed he occupied his own luxury suite. “What do you mean, where I reside?” I ask. “Don’t you live there, too?”

  “I’m a man between worlds.” He shrugs. “I go where Arthur needs me. But, if you must know, this here’s the part of Gray Wolf that’ll always feel closest to home.”

  Something about the way he said that reminds me of Freya.

  If it’s possible Freya’s not from this timeline, then does the same go for Killian?

  I would just come out and ask him, but considering how Killian’s always working an agenda, I’ll need to do so in a way that doesn’t alarm him.

  “How about you and I make a deal?” Killian leans across the table, his fingers lightly drumming just inches from mine. “You tell me where you were really sneaking off to, and I’ll fill you in on my backstory.”

  “First of all, I wasn’t sneaking anywhere,” I say. “I was about to exit through the front door, in the middle of the day. Not exactly the definition of subterfuge.”

  “And second of all?” Killian quirks his eyebrows at me. Then, responding to my look of confusion, he adds, “Usually, when one begins a sentence with ‘first of all,’ it means there’s a whole other thing lined up in the barrel, ready to shoot. So, tell me: what’s part two?”

  I hesitate, unsure how I’ll answer, when Maisie reappears. And after serving us each a sizeable square of shepherd’s pie, she leaves with a brisk nod for me and a wink for Killian.

  I push the plate aside, drag my coffee in closer, and cradle the ceramic mug between my palms. Killian’s right about there being a next part. Though I’m not sure I should tell him how his use of the word “backstory” only confirms my suspicion that Killian du Luce isn’t just a made-up name but a made-up person as well.

  Between all the accents and his seemingly infinite storehouse of secrets, sometimes I wonder if he even knows who he is behind his golden-boy facade.

  Still, I just say, “No part two. I’m just waiting to hear all about this backstory of yours.”

  He shoots a quick look around the room and says, “Earlier, when you asked if I’m some sort of conquering hero… Well, please know I’m not speaking from a place of hubris when I confirm I’m exactly that.”

  I squint, waiting for whatever comes next. Because honestly, I was just being flippant.

  “Take Maisie for instance…” Killian leans closer, fixes his gaze hard on mine. And what I find revealed in those endless pools of his eyes is not at all what I’ve come to expect.

  The sort of flirty charm offensive he usually leads with has been stripped away, leaving a new version of Killian in its place. One that’s so open and trusting, I’m taken aback. But it’s what he says next that really blows my mind.

  “I… Well, to put it bluntly…” He pauses a beat. “I saved her.”

  “Saved her from…?” I abandon my coffee, tuck my hands into my lap, eager to learn whatever he’s willing to confess.

  After another quick look around, Killian inhales a sharp breath, and on the exhale, he says, “I saved her from being burned at the stake.”

  13

  I stare at Killian. No way is he serious.

  “But they don’t burn people at the stake anymore,” I remind him.

  I watch as he rubs his lips together and takes another glance around the room. When Maisie catches his eye and starts to head over, he’s quick to hold up a hand and wave her away.

  “Maybe not.” He returns to me. “But I never claimed she was from this century, did I?” Then he digs into his food as though he’s totally unaware of the impact of his words. Totally unaware of the lightning bolt striking my brain.

  So there it is—the answer I was looking for. And now that it’s here, what exactly am I supposed to do with it?

  “And what about you?” I ask, my voice uncertain. “Are you from this timeline?”

  I study him closely, catching the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers nervously grasp at his fork. With his gaze burning brightly on mine, he says, “What do you think?”

  I shrug, aware of my breath coming faster, more shallow—frantic puffs of air blowing in and out of my lungs. While I definitely have my suspicions, there’s no way of knowing for sure unless he decides to confess. And even then, there’s no way of knowing if it’s really the truth.

  He goes in for another bite, taking his time chewing, savoring, and gesturing for me to do the same. So I do. And the shepherd’s pie is so delicious, another bite quickly follows.

  “You probably don’t know this,” he says. “But my Trips aren’t like yours. Arthur doesn’t send me out to steal art or jewels or things of that sort—or at least, not very often. Though there have been many occasions when he’s sent me out to redistribute those items among the poor. And while I thought that might shock you, going by your expression, you already know.”

  I nod. “Arthur told me how he does that sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” Killian tips his head back and laughs. “You’d be surprised how much he gives away. Redistributing the wealth is one of his greatest joys.”