Warrior Fae Trapped (Warrior Fae 1)

The room was empty, but she could hear the hum of conversation. The other guests were nearby.

“It feels a little…” Charity paused when the man looked back, that focused gaze clamming her up. For some reason, she didn’t want him to know she thought the environment felt…off.

Dangerous.

Or was that Devon guy in her head? She had excellent instincts, but she had to be able to listen to them.

“Why was that woman standing in that room by herself?” Charity asked as they crossed the space.

“She is making sure no unwanted…guests attempt to sneak in,” the man said, pausing by a closed door.

Sam nodded, as if it were perfectly normal for a woman to stand sentinel in the middle of a dim room, staring out a window at the side yard in case party crashers planned to traipse in through the bushes.

Charity couldn’t help but grip Sam’s wrist, the urge to turn back and run strengthening. Sam swore under her breath when she shook her off, then said, “Don’t make me regret bringing you.”

“I already regret you bringing me.”

They stepped just beyond the door and into a large kitchen awash with light and littered with pretty and trendy people holding what looked like shimmering crystal goblets. All maintained artfully bored expressions despite the price of the drinkware in their hands.

“Enjoy.” The man turned and moved off in the direction they’d come, apparently off to greet more partiers.

“Why use the door knocker if someone has to stand close by to hear it?” Charity asked.

“He’s welcoming the guests, hello? Did you see his suit? It was top quality and tailored. It must’ve cost a fortune.”

Charity hadn’t even noticed he was wearing a suit. She’d been too distracted by his hungry gaze. Every time she’d glanced at him, his eyes had been on her.

Serial killers didn’t congregate together at parties, did they? They were more lone-wolf types?

Though even if they did, it wouldn’t be the best move to target wealthy kids for a massacre. Their parents would hire the best lawyers, and the press and public interest would ensure the cops stayed on the job and found the killers.

She shook her head. Sam was probably right about that guy Devon. Hot guys played girls for sport. What could possibly be dangerous about this setup?

And yet…

“If anyone says anything about a basement, I’m out,” Charity murmured.

“He was my age, too. I wonder if he’s single,” Sam whispered, running her lip through her blindingly white teeth. Her line of thinking had clearly gone a completely different direction.

“I think you should aim higher than the door-knocker guy. He wouldn’t be much fun to hang around with, standing in the front, staring at the door, waiting for someone new to come knocking…”

“God you’re weird. This is why you get A’s in creative writing.”

“I get A’s in creative writing because I do my homework and study for tests.”

“That too. Hmm.” Sam tossed her hair before slinking down into a sexy pose, pushing out her breasts and jutting her hip to the side. “Look at all the hotties.”

Charity followed her gaze, taking in the room. Guys and gals, all of them close in age to Charity and Samantha, gathered around an island in a sea of granite. An elegant crystal bowl of punch rested in the middle of the counter. Five or so people hovered around with their goblets, laughing nervously while shooting furtive glances at the beautiful people around them.

“Well, I’ll be. Devon was right. Punch? What are we, at a high school dance in 1982?” Charity asked, also glancing at the devastatingly handsome and beautiful people around the periphery of the room. Their suits and dresses fit their fantastic bodies perfectly, and each had glittering accessories to match—jewelry for the women and cufflinks for the men. They stood at ease in groups of two or three, chatting with one another but often not facing one another. Their attention was instead fixed on the slightly younger and definitely less polished group around the punch bowl. It was like they were at a dance and awkwardly waiting for members of the opposite sex to ask them for a dance.

“It is like high school,” Charity said. “I hated high school.”

“That’s because you were a nerd.”

“Nope. It was because I was labeled a poor, stinky kid who ate garbage and lived on the other side of the tracks.”

“Gross. T-M-I.”

“Awesome. I knew you’d lend a compassionate ear. I did shower, by the way. Anyway, why doesn’t anyone on the perimeter of the room have a drink?” Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “Do you think Devon was right about it being spiked? Also, isn’t it odd that we’re standing here, staring at everyone?”

“You’re staring. I’m taking it all in.”

“Yes, right. Clearly different.”

“The punch is obviously just spiked with alcohol or people would already be acting weird,” Sam said to herself, chuckling a little. “Devon was a little too dramatic in his scare tactics. I need to start mingling before he gets here. He’ll want me more if someone else has my interest.”