Firstlife by Gena Showalter

beautiful.”
    Before he’s finished delivering the (clearly) practiced line, I’m already building walls. “I think you mean I’m attitudinal.”
    â€œDefinitely not. But now I’m certain you’re irresistible.”
    â€œI think you mean unsuitable.”
    â€œOr adorable.”
    Oh, crap. Are we flirting? “All right. Enough.”
    The corners of his lips twitch. “Are you playing hard to get, lass? It’s never happened to me before, so I need clarification.”
    â€œI’m not playing anything. And I’m impossible to get.”
    He rubs his hands together with something akin to glee. “Well, then. Challenge accepted.”
    I open my mouth to protest, but my gaze lands on his wrists. Myriad brands. They are the loveliest I’ve ever seen, the links slanted rather than rounded, creating languid eyes. And up close like this, the tattoos on his forearms appear to be Technicolor. They are spectacular, but there are too many to count without a more intense study.
    I want to do a more intense study.
    And...there’s something odd about the images. Something more than simple aesthetics. The arrangement, maybe? There are lines through the skull with tears of blood. More lines through the cracked and crumbling moon, with pieces falling into the stars. Are they telling a story? Like hieroglyphics?
    â€œInto tattoos, lass? Well, I’m happy to offer you a private unveiling later.”
    My cheeks flare with heat. I duck my head to hide the reaction.
    I’m not usually into tattoos, no. Even though I have one myself. A small rendition of planet Earth on the back of my neck. I was fifteen when I got it—snuck out with my friends in my first real act of rebellion—but I’m not sure why I thought a globe was “a perfect expression of my turbulent emotions, and something I’ll never regret.”
    â€œYou’re still staring,” he says.
    I grind my teeth. “Where are you from?” Like the staff, inmates hail from all over the world. I’m a native of Los Angeles, where the House of Myriad resides—where my dad wields a massive amount of power. The laws he helps push through affect both humans and spirits.
    My mother is an artist in high demand. Her paintings of Myriad always sell at auction.
    I sometimes wonder what the two have told their friends about my absence. Boarding school? Rehab? Or the truth?
    â€œWhere do you want me to be from?” Killian rasps.
    Irritation sparks. “Why are you here?” I always ask the newcomers, even though I rarely receive an answer. Bow, Marlowe and Clay are the exceptions.
    He shrugs. “Would you believe I saw something I wanted and decided to come in and get it?”
    My blush returns, and I lament the fairness of my skin. Not to mention my inability to hide even the slightest reaction. Most of all, I lament his effect on me. “Let me guess. You wanted the five-star cuisine? The frequent whippings? The voyeuristic staff?”
    Nonchalant, he drapes his arm over the back of my chair. “Perhaps it was your friend. What’s she calling herself these days?”
    His odd phrasing throws me. “Her name is Bow, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œBow.” He laughs, low and intimate. “An archer uses a bow and arrow. How cute.”
    Again, I’m thrown. “What’s the deal between you two?”
    â€œShe’s a bitch, and she can’t be trusted. Don’t worry, though.” He leans close enough to graze the tip of his nose against my ear. “I’ll protect you.”
    I jerk away, severing contact.
    â€œAre you afraid of me? I’m disappointed.” Killian pouts at me. “Where’s the firecracker who once choked a guard with his own belt?”
    I don’t have to wonder how he obtained his info. In here, the gossip train never stops running. I’m sure he heard about my punishment,