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“This isn’t going to work,” Doctor Seytan mutters under her breath.
“Well, that’s not your call to make now, is it?” Honeymonster shoots back.
Doctor Seytan crosses her arms. “I will make them see reason on this. She’s not appropriate. She won’t fit in. She doesn’t play nicely with others and—”
“And it’s still not your call to make,” he interrupts with a charming, panty-melting smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ve been asked to collect Kayla and bring her to art therapy.”
I have no idea if that’s true or not, but I don’t hang around waiting to find out. I hop off the bed, happy when the room only partially spins, and take Honeymonster’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks,” I say as soon as we’re out of earshot.
“No worries, Sugar Puff. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up. Had to pee. I think the Doctor must have been waiting for me to leave so she could pounce on you.”
“Not today, Seytan,” I murmur, and he laughs. He has such an easygoing, joyful laugh that it really is hard to imagine him as a killer, but then again, people would probably say the same about me. “So are we really off to art therapy?”
“Oh absolutely.”
“Damn it. I was hoping it was a ruse to break me out.”
“There is no breaking out of here, Kookaburra,” he says, suddenly serious.
I scowl. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? Kayla Kookaburra is cute.”
“My surname’s actually kingfisher.”
“No way. For real?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong with Kookaburra then?”
“They gave me that name. I hate it.”
“They?”
“The media.”
“There’s a lot of power in a name, Kayla. Maybe you should own it. Make it yours. I happen to think it's a cute name for a cute girl.”
“You know I’ve killed seven men who called me cute, right?” I warn.
“Yeah, but I bet none of them had dimples like these,” he quips, flashing me that grin again that makes my lady parts party.
“You’re lucky I’m still recovering. Otherwise you’d be bleeding out by now. Dimples or no dimples, I’m not cute.”
“If you say so, cutie patootie.”
“You know patootie is old Victorian slang for penis, right? You’re literally calling me a cute penis, and you think it’s endearing somehow?”
His grin gets even wider – it’s actually infectious damn him and histwindimples – and then he throws his head back and laughs. It’s deep and booming and echoes through the corridors.
“Come on, Ko—Kayla,” he quickly corrects himself when I glare at him. “I think you’re going to love the art room.”
It takes several winding corridors and an elevator ride to get there, but when we arrive, my breath is stolen.
I was right about the windows thing. We’re at the very top of the building, the lift doors drawing back onto a large open-plan space that can only be described as an art studio. The room itself is large and circular, completely surrounded by floor to ceiling windows spanning the full 360 degrees of the room, and various easels and art supply stations are dotted around.
