Page 10 of Gemini Wicked

Ronin’s warning growl puts a stop to that. My boyfriend’s taller and broader through the chest than Xiao, and Ronin’s eyes burn gold when his power rises.

He’s fucking deadly. And he’s on a hairpin trigger.

Careful, darling, I purr at him through our bond. Bloodshed makes such a mess. And that Dolce & Gabbana tuxedo jacket you’re wearing requires dry cleaning.

My boyfriend’s the strongest telepath in our polycule. But our bond is weirdly silent. It’s atypical, but I suppose he’s distracted by this unexpected encounter.

Still, I don’t like it.

The last thing I need to feel tonight is more alone.

Lover Boy shoots Ronin a cautious look, then retrains his broody gaze on Zara. “Guess not then, huh. You, me, her? Too bad.”

“Not really,” Zara shoots back.

“Too bloody right,” Ronin mutters in disgust.

Now Lover Boy’s eyes turn shifty. “You know this isn’t personal, right? Like we were ever gonna say no when a sweet deal like this falls right in our lap?”

My skin prickles in a cold trickle of warning.

“What deal?” my girl snarls.

“It’s not personal, bambina.” Xiao’s handsome face hardens. “But it’s not an offer we could refuse.”

That’s when that arrogant ass whips a fucking pistol from his tux.

And points it straight at Zara.

Somehow no one ever expects anyone to bring an old-fashioned handgun to a witching party.

He’s fast. I’ll give him that. He’s trained and he’s lethal and he’s fast. Plus that slippery bastard chose his moment with exquisite care. The moment when he’s too close to Zara to miss.

I hiss with alarm. My casting hand sweeps up.

The whiplash snap of my witchcraft coils and crackles through every synapse.

Ronin’s already firing into motion with his own killer instincts, snarling and shoving Zara into Neo’s startled arms, then diving in front of them. All too clearly, he intends to take the hit himself.

No.

Not Ronin.

That’s simply not happening.

Lover Boy flips the safety off and gives my boyfriend a nasty grin. In a sort of hideous slow motion, his trigger finger tightens—

With a sweep of my ringed hand, I let my bad side out to play.

The telekinetic wallop of my witchcraft sends that bastard hurling backward through the air, gun flying from his hand, before he can tighten his grip. I launch Xiao airborne across the deck before he can lay a single fucking finger on Zara or Ronin, who are both fucking mine.

Lover Boy’s flying form crashes into an unsuspecting waiter, toiling along under a tray of empty glasses, and knocks both of them sprawling into a bulkhead with a cry.

The pair crash to the deck in a tangle of startled limbs and a shower of broken glass.

Oh, dear. Collateral damage.

Despicable me.

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