Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Eventually, though, I make my way back to the rooms crowded with partygoers.
There are people everywhere, mingling and laughing and dancing. Some are paired off in corners, kissing and touching with sly smiles and roaming hands.
My skin crawls in sympathy even though I realize the girl I'm watching is actually into it and wants the attention she's getting.
When I look away from the display, I feel an icky weight in my limbs, a full sick feeling inside me. It should dissipate when I turn away from the stimuli, but it doesn't. If anything, the sensation intensifies.
It feels like I'm being watched, but I know that's crazy. It’s just because I feel myself starting to get panicky and it’s so embarrassing that I’m worried about someone noticing.
I don't expect to find anybody actually watching me, so when I cede to my paranoia and take a look around, I'm shocked to lock eyes with an imposing figure leaning over the railing on the second floor, watching me without distraction from his solitary perch.
His intense gaze is locked on me, and his eyes are such a piercing green, I can see their color from all the way down here.
Why is he watching me like that?
Because he is watching me. It’s not like when I happened to meet the glances of the girls from Spanish class. His gaze is trained on me, and I get the feeling it has been for longer than I realized.
Probably because you're being such a socially awkward lunatic, Sophie. Get a hold of yourself.
I tell myself that's all it is, but the knowing smirk that tugs at his full lips makes me decidedly uneasy. It’s like he can tell he’s making me uncomfortable and he… likes it.
What a creep.
I tear my gaze away from his and turn away like it doesn’t bother me, but I can still feel his gaze burning into me until I disappear from the room—and his line of sight.
Everyone else seems to be having fun, but to me, this party feels a little like being chased through a haunted house. Spooks around every corner, and not a chainsaw in sight.
There are a lot of Jack-o-lanterns, though. My hands ache for whoever had to carve these elaborate designs into so many pumpkins.
The next room is huge and packed so it’s easy to get lost in. I wouldn’t normally enjoy such a crowded room, but I feel like I can easily blend in with so many people, and I’m creeped out from that guy upstairs watching me the way he did.
People in costumes are gathered in groups standing and talking, scattered across pieces of expensive-looking furniture, and leaning against walls checking their phones.
Across the room, a girl dressed in a kickass Harley Quinn costume is playing on her phone until Batman interrupts her. At first, it’s all in good fun, but I watch as the amusement on her face turns to annoyance. It’s easy to surmise she’s probably getting attention she doesn’t want from him now.
I take a step in her direction, intending to pretend I know her so I can offer a convenient escape from the obtuse fake hero, but before I make it more than a couple of steps, my path is blocked by a Viking.
His mantle of fur sways as he stops directly in front of me and crosses his muscular arms. I look up to say excuse me before I move around him, but the words never make it past my lips.
I stop short of gasping when I look up into the handsome but vaguely sinister face of the guy who was staring down at me from upstairs.
He’s wearing a great Viking costume with lush fur over his broad shoulders—hopefully faux fur—and adornments that look like real gold. Dark-colored clothes cling to his muscular torso and thighs, and there’s more fur covering his boots. A sheathed sword hangs at his hip, and his long dark hair is pulled back like the gorgeous Viking from one of my favorite TV shows.
If he told me he was an actual Viking who had stumbled upon time travel and stepped out into one of the rooms upstairs, I might be tempted to believe him.
I appreciate a sexy Viking as much as the next girl, but this one has already set off my admittedly sensitive creeper alarm, and I don’t have time to talk to him, anyway. I have to save Harley Quinn from Batman.
His voice is deep and rumbles right through me. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Ordinarily, my manners would compel me to introduce myself despite how uncomfortable he makes me, but I’m on a mission right now and can’t be deterred.
“Sure we have,” I say, even though we haven’t. “You’re Uhtred of Bebbanburg. I’ve watched many seasons of your show. Big fan. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”