Page 22 of Gemini Wicked

I can’t find Racetrack in the fray. And all my guys have their hands full.

My flying skills are still a work in progress. But I snatch the defibrillator, shoot erratically above the scrum, zip over to the bar to shove the thing at the freaked-out chick with the boa (who just about rips the unit from my arms), then hurl myself airborne to help my friend.

Before I can ride to Dez’s rescue like the Lone Ranger, Neo (another innocent) rushes across the deck and tackles her attacker.

What my fated mate lacks in skill, he definitely makes up for in brawn and bravery. Through sheer body mass and determination, Neo does manage to knock the jerk into a wall.

Dez stumbles clear of the scuffle, wrists shackled behind her. Face frantic, dress torn, hair falling down in spirals from her sleek ponytail, she scrambles out of the way through the chaos the best she can—

Then her head jerks up and her eyes widen with alarm. Her mouth opens in a horrified O.

That’s when she winks out of sight.

Gone in a blink.

My friend. The gentle one. The only one of us who’s totally, truly innocent.

She’s… just… fucking… gone.

Now I’m the one screaming.

“Dezzz!”

Chapter Four

Ronin

Bloody fuck.

Sure, the rough surface of psychic friction from this whole shitshow’s been chafing me since I set foot on this blooming boat. The atmosphere on board’s been bristly enough to give any Valyrian telepath the hives. Even after that nullifying object some bloke’s carrying numbs me out like Novocaine.

But Zara’s scream rips through my deadened senses like a Sawsall.

Snarling with fury, I lob a flaming fireball at the wall of assholes powering toward me and take those bastards out like ninepins. All screaming like blazes, some doing the drop-and-roll to extinguish their smoldering shirts. Others run to hurl their flaming bodies over the rail into the sea.

With any luck, they’ll drown.

I’ve got kilojoules of blistering rage crackling through every synapse.

No one—and I mean no one—fucking touches my girl.

I pivot to find Zara losing her shit, eyes glowing ultraviolet, lightning crackling round her hands. She’s staring at Dez’s glittery purse, lying on the empty deck where our housemate was literally just standing.

But I’ve also got eyes on Racetrack, crouched on the bar behind Zara in a sea of shattered glass, with one arm outflung, eyes burning silver, and her hard face all wicked with witchcraft.

“Oh, bloody hell,” I mutter.

RT’s witchcraft is teleportation. No shocker then. She’s teleported her girlfriend out of danger, probably straight back to the domus. Even though teleporting a whole girl that kind of distance, kilometers back to shore, would drain anyone’s psychic battery.

In this case, my housemate’s judgment sucks.

“Fuck me, RT!” I bellow. Her freaky gaze snaps toward me. “You got anything left in the tank?”

Racetrack hesitates, then jerks her chin in a nod.

Not exactly the ringing endorsement I’m hoping for. But a bloke takes what he can get.

“Then get Zara the hell out of here!” I snap.

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