Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“What a way to go,” he grins, completely unbothered by the threat. The colored ink on his neck shifts as he laughs—blues and greens where Asher's are all gray and black. I haven’t got to know Atlas to any capacity since being here, but in another life, I know he and I would become friends.
“You're disgusting,” Camille mutters from his other side, but there's no real heat in it. Her designer ski outfit is all clean white and silver. It makes her look like some ice princess. She’s giving Elsa and I’m more like Mr. Freeze.
Punk snorts from her spot. “Please, like Ivy doesn't know exactly what she's doing in those pants. Girl's got more kills in yoga pants than most assassins have in tactical gear.”
“Professional hazard,” I murmur, adjusting the tight turtleneck that's riding up slightly under my vest. “Men are stupid when distracted.”
“Can confirm,” Jord adds drily. “Remember Budapest? Dude walked straight into traffic watching you cross the street.”
I pause what I’m doing. “That was an accident.”
“Sure it was,” Lucinda's green eyes meet mine. “Just like wearing fuck-me boots to a family-friendly sporting event is an accident.”
I glance down at my fuzzy snow boots. “They're warm. And how are these fuck-me boots?”
I do look good. But fashion comes to me naturally, it always has. I didn’t mean for the fit to make me look dangerous, but I guess it does. All tight black clothes, paired with a beige crop vest.
Daniel pulls the car to a stop near the main entrance where crowds are already gathering. Massive screens show Asher at the peak, preparing for his presentation run.
My chest tightens, saliva burning its way down my throat.
I slide out of the car, cold air slapping across my face. The base of Mount Grim is all gleaming technology. Holographic displays showing real-time stats, drones buzzing overhead capturing every angle. It's something from a sci-fi film.
A robot glides up to us, its mechanical voice cheerful. “Welcome to the Winter Games finale! Can I scan your access passes?”
Punk holds up her phone, the VIP codes Asher sent us gleaming on the screen. The robot's eyes flash green. “Excellent! You have premium access to all viewing areas. The final run begins in thirty minutes. Asher is currently—”
“We know where he is,” I cut it off, already walking toward the lodge. Damn fucking robots. Has no one seen Terminator?
The others follow, Atlas still shooting appreciative glances at my ass when he thinks I'm not looking.
“You know I'll actually remove your eyes, right?” I say without turning around.
“Worth it,” he calls back. “Besides, may as well make the most of this while my brother isn’t here.”
Camille makes a disgusted sound. “God, do you ever stop being gross?”
”When I'm dead, probably.”
“That can be arranged,” I offer helpfully.
The lodge is crawling with people. Some in crop tops who've decided hypothermia is worth it if Asher notices, others with his name across their chest whether in sports gear or hoodies. They shift when we cut through.
Lucinda stalks a couple steps ahead, all senses clearly on alert. Jord's beside me, hand hovering at his hip. Most wouldn’t notice if they didn’t know who Jord was.
“Oh my God, is that Ivanya?” The whisper starts somewhere to our left, rippling through the crowd like wildfire. Heads turn, phones lift, and suddenly I'm the center of attention I didn't ask for.
“Holy shit, it is! The girl from Asher's Instagram!”
Camille's jaw tightens beside me, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her designer clutch. The fans don't even glance her way—Asher's actual fiancée might as well be invisible. I'd feel bad if she wasn't such a bitch.
“Ivy! Ivy!” A group of girls wave frantically, their faces bright with excitement. One brave soul pushes forward, clutching a poster of Asher to her chest. “Can we get a photo? Please?”
Punk's eyes go wide, shaking her head. But something about their genuine enthusiasm stops me. Asher chose to share me with his world and they’re part of it.
“Of course,” I say, surprising myself with how gentle my voice comes out. I was a young girl once. I wish I could say teenage me could relate to loving a celebrity as much as they do Asher, but I didn't. I missed a milestone somewhere along the way. Amongst many others, I'm sure.
Their friends snap photos of us as both girls scream with joy. One shoves a marker and a hoodie at me. “Ice Butcher's Snow Sluts.”
“Could you sign it? You're like, so badass. The way you guys are always joking around in his stories!” Her eyes widen, spread with the kind of innocence I couldn’t even imagine possessing.
I scrawl my name across the fabric, adding a little heart just to watch Camille's face turn an interesting shade of purple.
They grab my hands, touch my shoulders, their gratitude spilling past every social boundary while I stand there and take it.