Page 89 of Gemini Wicked

“If you are queasy,” Max says hopefully, “could that mean you are pregnant?”

Ronin snorts with laughter and gives Max a friendly nudge. “Bollocks, that’s like a comic obsession with you, love. Whenever Zara’s got a pea in the pod, pretty sure she’ll not tell us in the commons.”

Max says with heat, “It is easy for you to joke—”

“Cheese on toast, will the two of you knock it off. I’m not pregnant.” I divide an exasperated look between them.

Ronin’s still snickering, topaz eyes alight with mischief. But, shit, Max looks crushed. The big guy’s been all hangdog, head droopy and shoulders slumped, ever since Lucius came down on him in class like a dropped anvil.

School is hard for my dragon.

This mating rut is hard on him.

And me being all cagey and skittish about popping out little Zaras (which, like, the world probably doesn’t need more of right now, just one of me seems like enough to handle) is the hardest.

For Max’s sake, I make a real effort to soften my tone. “I’m queasy because I’m nervous about our finals, okay?”

Apparently for good reason.

Ronin’s wicked smirk vanishes. Max growls low and deep in his chest.

When my guys finally fall silent, I hone in on the echoey specifics of my classmates’ speculative murmurs, bouncing off the stone walls and marble floors, from halfway across the commons.

“Mon Dieu, I thought it was lost for good! That artifact has not been seen since, when, the last Witching World War…?”

“Guess that rules me out from a shot at the Dean’s List, mates. Counting on those finals to boost my marks, wasn’t I? With a challenge like that, be lucky if I don’t fail outright and have the whole year be a do-over. Me mum won’t be happy.”

The unhappy mumbles of Mallory’s Villa Hadrian housemates (who are the Icarus equivalent of Hufflepuffs and mostly harmless) are drowned out by a spiteful rill of laughter from one of those Villa Tiberius bitches in the Aquarius clique.

They’re the opposite of harmless.

“Well, well, witches. Someone’s been polishing the Dean’s apple. Looks like Deanie’s playing favorites in the succession scrimmage after all.”

Those ominous words finally unlock my frozen muscles and unstick my saddle shoes, which feel glued to the cathedral floor (a form of common magic I wouldn’t put past those Tiberius witches, except no one’s noticed me standing here yet).

I tilt my chin and swank into the church like I’m Vasili and I own the place because one, appearances matter, and two, I’ve already confirmed Cleo’s a no-show. My ex-BFF likes to sleep in and probably won’t show her celebrity face till noon, after she’s caffeinated. If she’s feeling splurgy, she’ll allow herself the caloric indulgence of an organic açaí yogurt smoothie (the exact thing I used to blender for her the morning after a wild night of clubbing or a big heist) and then not eat again all day. That way, she doesn’t risk her famous figure or her ability to walk the runway next Paris Fashion Week.

I wonder how that whole supermodel It Girl thing she’s rocking in New York and Milan and Paris is even gonna work if she’s also queening it here in the witching world?

Not that I’ll give her that chance.

My guys fall in behind me and we saunter through the commons, past clusters of arranged couches and a row of study carrells where the confessionals used to be. Our footfalls echo off the soaring walls.

Disturbed by our passage, an explosion of pale feathers erupts from a vacant carrell with a violence that jams my heart against my sternum. My pulse hammers in my throat as a dove flutters wildly past, so close a wing brushes my hair.

The bird streaks into the shadows of the church’s vaulted ceiling and settles safely on a high beam.

Max growls after the poor dove with his dragon eyes flaming. Ronin rests a steadying hand against my lower back.

“Easy, loves,” my Brit murmurs. “You’re both torqued so tight you’re making me twitchy.”

Super aware of all those Tiberius eyes watching me for any sign of weakness, I give a hard nod and pick up the pace.

To camouflage my nerves and project the proper attitude, I sway my ass with Gemini sass.

That shit works, because the wall of students parts before me like the Red Sea before Moses (mostly). Except for that trio of Tiberius bitches, who eye me and my guys with mocking grins they wouldn’t have dared a day ago, before I got my supposed comeuppance on live TV.

I especially don’t like the sleazy speculation in the way their stares slide over Max and Ronin. I mean, sure, Ronin was Mr. One and Done till I came along and he’s pretty much shagged everyone at this Academy. The whole school (all genders) knows what he’s got under the hood.

---