Page 5 of Gemini Wicked

Still, I’m still the guest of honor (I mean, allegedly?) and we’re kinda hard to miss.

Heads are already turning all over this deck, hands rising to cover the sibilant hiss of whispers, venomous eyes skittering over all of us like spiders. Over the floral notes of high-end fragrance and the dry fizz of bubbly, the dark spice of Mogadon pheromones—Vasili’s, mine, the biochemical hit of sex and aggression from half the crowd on this party boat—is making my head spin.

Cheese on toast.

Why do I feel like this shiver of sharks is closing in for the kill?

These days, I’m a famous face myself. (Thanks for that, WNN). My spangly gown with its icy blue discs catches the sunset and throws flashes of light in all directions, my eyes glow purple with psi fire when I’m nervous (like now), and I’m definitely the only guest on board with a wild mane of teal hair that falls to my ass.

Not to mention Ronin towering at my side, with his powerful frame and leather pants and waist-length black mane, golden eyes flaming in his feral face while all those eyes devour him.

Thanks to those stalker pics, everyone on board knows he’s packing a pierced dick behind his zipper.

Hell, right now, his Prince Albert is probably the most famous piercing in the witching world.

“Fuck, it’s already famous. Half this lot have already seen it up close, love, believe me,” Ronin says easily, because of course he’s following my thoughts. Deftly he snares me a glass of bubbly from a passing tray. “I fucked half the bloody aristocracy before you came along, didn’t I?”

Of course he has.

Till I came along, Ronin was just living his best bisexual manwhore life. He doesn’t seem to miss it, but I love the way he owns that shit.

Vasili snickers as he slithers up alongside us. His cool fingers rescue the silver clutch I’m gripping too tightly (which looks better on him anyway). His free hand laces through mine.

That’s my Goblin King staking his own casual claim.

On me.

“Yeah, well Sir One and Done is officially off the market. So they all better get used to that.” I glare at a trio of bitches by the oyster bar, who aren’t even trying to hide the way they’re eye-fucking Ronin.

“Too right, he is. I’m taken.” Ronin slips his champagne glass into my free hand. Then he smolders at V and nuzzles my ear with his hot lips in a way that makes me shiver with sudden need.

Vasili watches the two of us connect and hums with appreciation.

Finally, those three bitches look away. Good. I’m a goddamn alpha myself and they better show me—and my mates—some fucking respect.

Ronin eases away before we can take our PDA to the next level so he can collect glasses of bubbly for Neo and the girls. Which is fine. I’m definitely not planning another of our infamous public orgies in this joint.

I sip the crisp dry fizz of my Dom Perignon and play it all casual for the news cams.

But still.

It’s weird. I wasn’t expecting party favors or a table piled with presents. I don’t know these people. And what little I do know, I don’t like.

But no one comes to greet us. No one even throws me a token Happy Birthday.

Yet heads are turning our way all over this goddamn boat.

There’s a world-famous rock star performing live to the starboard side. A spectacular Mediterranean sunset blazing away to port. Two good-looking girls with runway-quality bodies in barely-there party frocks making out on the dance floor.

And this whole joint’s fixated on us?

The snap and pop of a nearby camera makes me flinch.

Which I fucking hate.

“Better get used to it, babe.” That’s Neo, bringing me a little cocktail plate piled high with fancy nibbles. We cluster around a tall standing table and try to ignore the attention. “Once you ascend, this is gonna be your court.”

“Yeah, kinda, I guess.” I nibble on a chocolate-covered strawberry, the sweet fruit and milk chocolate melting on my tongue, and study the crowd with a wary eye.

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