Page 1 of Gemini Wicked

Chapter One

Zara

The whole world is watching.

And, no, I’m not exaggerating.

The whole world is specifically watching me, the celebrity bad girl—basically the royal wild child of the witching world—celebrate my twenty-first birthday at a star-studded gala on the royal yacht.

In the fiery glow of a Mediterranean sunset, helicopters are already circling the sleek white wedge of the Aquarius Queen, where she’s anchored in the deepwater harbor off Icarus Island, like great whites circling a shark cage.

As we chug across the harbor toward the yacht in our borrowed boat from Racetrack’s dive shop, I can already feel those cameras trained on me from all angles. To me, they’re predators closing in for the kill.

The choppers circling and chuttering overhead.

The scrum of speedboats churning up the harbor.

And especially the mob of star-powered glitterati already aboard the Aquarius for the party. Betcha that school of piranhas already smells blood in the water.

Mine.

“Hey Zara! Gemini queen!” A pair of paparazzi on a jet ski zip past. “Show us your tits!”

Fuck.

In the balmy warmth of the June breeze flowing over my skin, my stomach churns worse than the sea in that jet ski’s wake. My pulse hammers harder than the electric beat of the globally famous pop diva on that party boat who’s performing exclusively for me tonight.

Scandal or no scandal, we’re live in five on WNN.

The Witching News Network.

Racetrack pilots the dive boat through the choppy turquoise surf with her usual take-no-prisoners badassery. She’s not any happier than I am about this whole shitshow or the media circus this latest invasion of my privacy’s unleashed. So she swears like a pirate whenever the kamikaze choppers dive-bomb our deck, or the paparazzi speedboats cut it too close buzzing past. She scowls into the blinding blaze of flashbulbs and ignores the news hounds’ vulgar shouts.

Let’s just say my housemate at the helm isn’t Miss Congeniality.

Me?

Teeth gritted, I smile tightly and wave like they all expect. The wind lifts my heavy mane of teal curls, freshly colored for my big day, and sends it swirling around my bare shoulders.

Or maybe that’s my power rising.

I don’t trust those cameras.

Especially not now.

Twitchy with nerves, I recross my legs in my sequined skirt, grip my silver clutch, and wish like hell this designer gown I’m wearing offered a concealed carry for my stiletto.

Too bad it doesn’t. Which is, like, a design flaw.

This party frock is so skimpy I’m barely wearing a goddamn thong—

“Now stop fidgeting, darling, do,” Vasili purrs from the seat beside me, where he’s lounging like a pasha in his own designer threads. “You don’t want to spoil my masterpiece. Which is you. You’ve already been positively wicked for spurning the royal purple.”

“Sorry to violate the dress code, Goblin King. Maybe you should throw me in detention, huh?” Despite my steadily worsening jitters, I sneak a peek at my outrageous alpha wearing that flamboyant getup.

This time, my smile’s a real one.

Vasili Romanov.

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