Page 37 of Gemini Wicked

Zara

I’m seriously fascinated by Mallory and her ménage.

I mean, I don’t know anyone else at Icarus who’s poly like me and my guys. But I don’t want to make my classmate feel weird. Or, God knows, threatened—like the rebel queen’s macking on her guys (or on her). So I work really hard not to stare.

Since that’s apparently what I am right now.

The rebel queen.

“WNN just finished filming their whole special broadcast from our villa crypt. I guess because it’s, I dunno, all medieval and atmospheric down there?” From her uneasy perch on the Renaissance sofa, Mallory wraps up her story with an apologetic shrug and scoots closer to the fire. “So we heard the whole thing right from the source. Messalina controls the media, and they’re spinning this whole thing like we’re starring in The Hunger Games and this is the revolution.”

“Am I supposed to be Katniss?” I stare. “Not totally minding. She’s badass.”

Mal’s throat ripples in a hard swallow. “They’re saying you and your kings are trying to overthrow the government.”

“Oh, please.” Vasili sneers and looks totally unimpressed. “As though there’s any sort of actual Aquarius government to overthrow. Everyone knows Messalina’s reign has been a nightmare. Truly, she’s worse than useless. The witching world is practically extinct. First she ignored it, then she denied it. In the end, she’s only made the entire crisis worse.”

“That’s why we’re here, true?” Draco Mars rasps in his sandpaper voice, draping a possessive arm around Mallory’s shoulders and tucking her skinny frame against his big body to keep her warm. “A shitload of witches and warlocks gonna feel the same way. The way we see it, you boys and her? If we gonna survive? You’re the only play for this shithole throne we got to make.”

Sure, that sounds supportive, and they’re here—which speaks volumes. But those Nordic eyes burning in the square-jawed face of Mallory’s hulking Icelandic beau are twin chips of blue ice.

Suffice it to say, this guy’s not filling half our sofa with his Hulk-sized body at one a.m. because he likes me.

And Mal’s other guy—Jean-Emilien Labête (who goes by Jae)—seems even more on edge as he prowls around our great room, barely visible in the shadows with his black hair and black clothes and silent tread.

Let’s just say it’s no coincidence that my guys have rearranged themselves around me on the settee with V coiled on one side, Lucius lurking on the other, and Ronin looming on his feet behind me with his hot Leo hands literally resting on my shoulders. Max is pacing around the windows again (and Jae’s definitely ceding him that terrain).

My surly dragon looks like he might shift and start flaming at the first sign of danger.

While Neo and Dez bustle around getting everyone refills on their coffee and cocoa, Racetrack pokes at the fire and looks grumpy.

I worry that my housemate’s head is hurting from her injury (which she incurred fighting for me). But of course, she’s too stubborn to admit it and take a numbing potion. Especially now, with these uninvited guests in the house, especially guests that are so alarming. I figure Dez is gonna have to coax her girlfriend into taking care of herself.

Because, clearly, I did enough ordering everyone around—including RT who isn’t even my mate—while we were fighting for our lives on that yacht.

“I’ll admit the news you’re hearing is consistent with what I’ve derived from my own sources, Ms. McSnicker,” Lucius murmurs around a genteel sip of Hungarian palinka. The fruity bite of his brandy stings my nostrils, but that bite is familiar and comforting. Comfort is something we all need right now. “My grandsire missed the yacht’s departure from the port in Sorrento to attend this evening’s festivities only because he was detained by the AIB when he attempted to board.”

“What the hell?” Okay, now I’m indignant. “One, Gramps is head of the Aries clan, so he’s influential as fuck. And two, he’s like a hundred years old. You can’t just go around arresting old people. They get heart attacks and shit.”

“Except for being inconvenienced by his detainment, he’s fine. Although I don’t advise that you address him as Gramps when you meet.” My headmaster shoots me a wry look and rests a steadying hand on my knee. “More to the point, I fear the same fate has befallen Racetrack’s mothers, as well as Senator Mercury… and even Mick Gemini.”

“My dad?” Caught in the middle of serving Mallory’s cocoa (minus schnapps, because she’s pregnant), Neo’s so surprised he almost squeaks. “He’s under arrest?”

“Whoa.” I sit up straighter and carefully cradle my own boozy cocoa, which is way too yummy to spill. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. My asshole dad gets arrested on, like, a regular basis. That’s what happens when you’re an Irish mob boss and a crooked casino czar. But I’m guessing that’s maybe not the norm for anyone else’s parental unit?”

“Let’s just say the arrest was a novel experience for my law-abiding and very traditional Hungarian grandsire,” Lucius says dryly. “However, a pureblooded Aries wolf shifter—even one of his years—is difficult to confine, as the AIB learned to their dismay. He is at this moment, as I believe you’d say, on the wind?”

“Bon bagay!” Jae, who’s a lean and kinda slinky-looking Creole with expensive clothes and amber eyes like a shifter—prowls into the light and bares his teeth in a wolfish grin. “The Aries wolves are badass, oui? My fanmi back in New Orleans, they tell folk tales about Count Laszlo.”

“Count Laszlo, huh?” I murmur to Lucius, shooting him a teasing wink. You been holding out on me, Teach? Am I gonna be a countess once you and I officially tie the knot?

You’re already a queen. The gray silk ribbon of my headmaster’s mental murmur unspools through the mating bond we share with our guys. Although it’s true my ancestral home is a rather atmospheric medieval castle in the Carpathians. I’ll enjoy taking you—all of you—to visit someday.

That juicy revelation definitely adds to the whole Old World aristocrat vibe Lucius is rocking.

Too bad I’m so worried about everything else I’m hearing, and so relieved Lucius seems none the worse for wear after his wolfish scuffle with that fucker Xiao—someone else who’s still on the wind—that I can barely even get psyched about visiting Dracula’s castle.

Still, it means something that Lucius (who’s super reserved and private, at least when he’s not wolfing out) is extending the invite. It means something that his whiskey eyes linger on all of us—all our mates, even Max who he isn’t fucking—with that kinda warmth.

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