Page 63 of Gemini Wicked

Now here’s him, cool and composed as the blooming Queen of England (except, you know, for that severed head he’s casually nudging with his boot).

And here’s me, gasping for air like a gaffed fish.

Locked onto that sly mocking stare, I swallow hard against the fist of nerves that’s throttling my throat.

“Took you long enough to pitch up here, mate.” My voice is a shredded rasp, but I’m flat out amazed it’s working.

Any rate, I’ve got to keep the volume down, or I’ll startle my mates. They’ll be startled enough in a tick when they see that Dark Fae and his severed head, won’t they?

Of course our drop-by guest doesn’t bother answering. Slowly his gaze wanders over my tattooed chest. Over the inky dragon, spewing flames, that claws across my pecs.

He’s not seen it before. But he has to suspect the truth.

I did it for him.

For the pain of losing him.

After I fucking killed him.

Every prick of that needle etched the pain of my guilt and my grief and my doomed love for this fucking Dark Fae permanently into my skin.

Now, while I tingle under his cold stare, his suspicious gaze slides down my naked abs. It narrows on the fistful of sheets I’m clenching over my dick.

This has to be the worst possible time in history for me to pop a boner. With him looking like he’d rather slit my gullet than fuck me.

But of course that’s what’s happening.

Same as always. Even now, under that inscrutable Unseelie stare, I’m hard for him.

Him? Un-fucking-likely he’s having the same reaction. He’s impossible to read, always has been, even for a pedigreed telepath like me.

And the fact I can’t read him makes me mental.

While the awkward silence stretches between us, I scowl into his broody face. “For fuck’s sake, Zeph. Zara’s been bonkers with worry over you—and the other one. Supposed to follow her right back from Avalon weeks ago, the both of you, weren’t you?”

I pause again, but of course he only sneers.

Figures.

Why do I always have to fall for the most difficult blasted men?

I heave a sigh and beg the gods for patience. “Why didn’t you bloody answer the scrying glass when I rang?”

His lip curls in a snarl that reveals a tiny hint of fang.

“A scrying glass is not a telephone, Ronin Kilcannon Pendragon. Nor am I an answering service.” His whispery murmur turns dark with malice.

Because when a Dark Fae knows your true name, there’s naught that comes from it but evil.

Caught short by the threat, I prickle with nerves. Once upon a time, I trusted this deadly creature. I more than trusted him. I blooming loved him.

But he betrayed my trust.

Now, thanks to him, Gwen’s dead.

He’s no telepath, but I am, and I must be broadcasting my emotional mess on all channels. Against the honed line of his jaw, a muscle flexes.

He pulls in a slow hiss.

---