Page 157 of Gemini Wicked

Zara manages to maintain her queenly composure until I’ve whirled her away from her disappointed suitor. Then she dissolves in my arms in a fit of slightly hysterical giggles.

“Don’t be so horrible to my peeps, Goblin King. I gotta build some trust with these guys. Woo them over.” Her Hollywood face alight with mischief, she grins up at me under the sparkly white-and-green dazzle of the Dark Fae crown. That crown certainly suits her, and she knows it. She hasn’t taken it off once since she claimed it.

I do wonder if she’s planning to wear it later while we’re fucking.

Up close, her new bauble is charmed silver, twisted into vines and leaves cleverly crafted to mimic thorny smilax. Which is, fittingly, a poisonous plant. Every dazzling chip of diamond is a thorn sharp enough to cut.

How utterly charming.

In short, that crown is far more sinister than her innocent homecoming queen tiara in the witching world (which, in case you’ve lost track, is still in the clutches of my vile funnel web spider of a father).

“For pity’s sake, don’t talk to me about wooing these people over.” I tuck my girl’s delicious curves, sheathed in dragonscale like a domme in latex, possessively against my body and glare at the bystanders writ large as we whirl past. “Your new subjects would cheerfully have watched you fry if that demon had his way. They should be wooing you, little queen. They should be licking your boots.”

Deftly I pivot to steer us safely past another determined-looking Fae who’s clearly on an intercept course for Zara. I can waltz like a Bridgerton (one of my many hidden talents), even to that war-harp’s tripped-out tunes.

Needless to say, I haven’t let anyone outside our harem lay a finger on Zara all night.

“Well, I definitely think they’re trying.” My girl tilts her head toward a particularly lovesick trio—two lords and a lady—all of whom I’ve already given the brush off—who stare longingly at Zara as I whirl her briskly past.

“Power of attraction,” my girl adds wryly, lifting one hand from my shoulder to adjust the crown over her teal hair on a rather jaunty angle. “That bennie certainly kicked in promptly. Let’s hope whatever other superpowers I’ve just added to my repertoire manifest PDQ. Because we’re gonna need ’em tomorrow to find the Horn of Ceres and pass our finals.”

Her brows draw together. Her eyes darken to storm-cloud blue. “That’s assuming Cleo the sea dragon hasn’t already found it.”

“Hmmm.” I don’t disagree, but I’m not ready to pivot quite so quickly from the current threat.

By all appearances, the coronation certainly seems to have gone off stunningly. Zephyr is enduring a dreary succession of tedious congratulatory toasts from his nobles while they all kiss the ring, with Ash looming protectively at one shoulder and (I’m quite interested to see) Ronin lingering at the other.

Max is slow-dancing with Neo, a sensual bump-and-grind that’s definitely drawing Zara’s attention and making our girl’s breath quicken. Neo’s trusting head is resting against Max’s, and the dragon has a tender hand threaded through our bookworm’s magenta curls.

Yet Max is watching Zara and me with his oblong dragon pupils narrowed to slits. Very clearly, he’s fantasizing with obsessive focus about sticking his impregnating dick in both of us. The blazing heat in his smoldering face sharpens my own state of alert.

On the surface, this night is an absolute triumph.

But something is, nonetheless, very wrong.

With me.

My Armani tux is perfectly tailored to fit every inch of my scrumptious self to perfection. Yet somehow, despite my tailor’s impeccable skill, my haute couture is chafing. Beneath, my skin stretches tight and hot against my bones. I’ve been struggling with temperature spikes and sudden sweats since that infernal dragon spilled my secret and dropped his bombshell about my newfound ability to carry eggs (like a hen!) last night. An inferno burns under my skin that makes my shirt cling to my back.

In fact, I’m perspiring so heavily I’ve already had to repair my cosmetics twice.

Now, with Zara’s fuckable little body tucked up against my hips and thighs, this persistent boner I’ve been sporting all day is achieving truly epic proportions.

Until I know my mate is incubating a little Goblin Prince or Princess in her deliciously fertile body, I’ll simply have to fuck both of us through this mating rut.

The fact that I’m simultaneously in heat, and (apparently) ready to incubate eggs myself, is an intolerable complication.

I don’t want this. The eggs. Obviously.

Yet my snake is demanding the immediate sexual service of Max’s dragon with a savagery that’s both intense and alarming.

Well, she’s simply not going to get what she wants.

As a result of all this, I’m fretful.

Anxious.

Not feeling at all like my usual horrid self.

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