Page 12 of Gemini Wicked

“Oh, very well, pet. If you must.” I pout.

Truly, he can be a terrible spoilsport.

Sparing me a narrow look of warning, Lucius frowns at our enemies. “I’m Lucius Aries, headmaster of Villa Augustus at the Icarus Academy. In the Dean’s absence, I speak on her behalf. In the event you’re unaware, I must advise you that violence within the island wards is strictly forbidden by the Academy Codex. Those wards were lowered to allow this vessel into the harbor. As guests, you’re bound by those obligations.”

For Lucius’ sake, I manage not to roll my eyes. Of course he intends to de-escalate the crisis, like the responsible headmaster he is.

But this entire dynamic is far too volatile for even his cool head to manage.

Too bad, of course.

“Hey Teach, sorry to rain on your parade, but these two don’t give a single shit about the Academy Codex.” Zara slips out of Neo’s protective arms, strides over to Cleo, and gets right in the Ferrari bitch’s face.

“That stunt Xiao just pulled. Is that what you came here for?” she demands of this girl whose smoldering face I’ll never see gracing the cover of my Cosmo in quite the same light again. “To finish the fucking Singapore job and kill me?”

Now that the handgun is out of play, this reunion is drawing an audience to rival the pop diva’s synchronized gyrations on stage. In fact, we’re attracting an actual crowd, and the cameras are definitely rolling. As for that witchy bitch Messalina Aquarius, our hostess is still nowhere to be found.

But Cleo Ferrari only has eyes for Zara.

“You never understood what the job even was,” the supermodel says tightly. “For you, it was always a sort of game. To protect your precious freedom. To thumb your nose at your horrible father. Someone must take the broader view, bella.”

Zara clenches her fists and pushes in closer. I don’t think the dear girl even realizes she’s floating. Levitation is one of the newer manifestations of her ever-expanding repertoire of witchy powers.

“Is that what this is, Cleo?” she grits, low and ugly. “You taking the broader view? Or is my asshole dad still bankrolling your fashion fix?”

Cleo Ferrari’s runway pout curls in a scowl of contempt. “Mick Gemini was never the one calling the shots. Cavolo. Why won’t you listen? I tell you, I didn’t come here to kill you.”

“Oh? Your sidekick certainly could have fooled us,” I murmur.

Ronin snarls in agreement. He’s still tracking Xiao and shifting to keep his own beefcake build between Lover Boy and Zara.

As for Zara and Cleo, their gazes are locked together. Neither one spares anyone else on the scene a particle of attention.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Zara drawls. “That you’re not actually trying to kill me. You know, what with the cameras rolling and all the little kiddies watching at home.”

I hum with admiration for my girl’s general badassery. She’s fearless. She’s a goddess. Only we—her warlocks—sense that she’s hurting.

She doesn’t trust easily, she’s tender-hearted, and her former ménage knifed her in the back.

Normally I’d be sensing all this firsthand through our mating bond. But the psychic bond that connects me with all the mates I’ve bitten—plus Ronin, spared my horrible bite but bonded to me all the same—those psychic bonds are silent.

Which can only mean someone in this crowd is carrying a nullifying object.

Something else about this entire setup that sets my nerves on edge.

Cleo is saying, oh, something or other to Zara about her tedious wish to talk. She even lapses into earnest Italian (which Zara speaks) in an apparent attempt to demonstrate her sincerity. But that Ferrari bitch has lost her audience.

At least, she’s lost me.

I, Vasili Romanov, am no longer entertained.

That little fuck toy Xiao is eyeing Ronin, trying to sidle closer to Zara, and generally looking shifty. His hand hovers near his trouser pocket in a way that makes me suspect he’s carrying another lethal weapon.

He can’t imagine he’ll succeed in getting anywhere near her. Still, all too clearly, he’s up to no good.

I summon my power with a slash of my casting hand that shoves that wretch backward, snarling, through a sea of broken glass until his back hits the bulkhead. There I pin him to the surface like a bug.

I’m seriously tempted to crush him.

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