Page 93 of Gemini Wicked

Lucius

I unlock the door with a whispered word and slip into my office in the crypt with an audible sigh of relief.

Between the looming threat of this Academy’s frequently lethal examinations and the ongoing angst of the succession struggle, there’s so much tension and youthful drama ricocheting through these halls that I’m experiencing a migraine.

With the aid of my wolfish senses, I pad through the darkness, moving gently to avoid jostling my aching skull. From memory, I skirt the ancient sarcophagus that holds the moldering bones of the headmaster who preceded me (mine being a post that comes with internment privileges as a job benefit). While my wolf whines in sympathy, I lower my briefcase to my desk and ease my rump into the creaking chair.

Hunching my shoulders protectively around my tender cranium, I clutch my temples with a heartfelt groan.

From the shadowy depths of the sofa directly before me, the sudden scrape and flare of a match nearly makes me leap from my skin.

I shoot to my feet with a snarl of alarm. My fangs punch down to fill my mouth.

Regrettably, my violent recoil creates a gust of air that blows out the fragile flame.

“There’s no cause for alarm, Professor Aries.” The voice that ripples through the darkness is very nearly Vasili’s. A tenor like butterscotch silk strokes my senses, edged with the rolling R’s and sibilant S’s of the Russian tongue.

But Vasili, to my sustained annoyance, never addresses me as Professor.

“The devil there isn’t,” I growl through my fangs.

I’m crouching on my desk, palms lowered to grip the ancient wood, claws sprouting from my fingers. In short, I’m a breath away from leaping for the stranger’s throat.

My office is protected with powerful wards this intruder has apparently disarmed with ease, so I already know he’s a powerful warlock.

My nostrils flare to sniff the air.

His scent too is Vasili’s, the dark spice of vetiver with an underlying note of birchwood. Clearly, this is why it failed to rouse my wolf.

As it happens, Vasili bent me over that same sofa yesterday and pounded into me so hard we overturned the lamp. Consequently, that sofa reeks of my alpha’s essence (as well as mine).

With a soft sigh, the trespasser strikes another match.

He may smell like my alpha and sound like my alpha, but the ruthless face that appears above the dancing flame, as my tall intruder bends to light a candle, is older and harder. A smooth wing of mahogany hair, streaked with silver at the temples, falls over a craggy brow to frame eyes dark and potent as espresso, flecked with shimmering gold.

In the flickering candlelight, those eyes glimmer with secrets.

This man is easy on the eyes, if you like them older, and if you like the Mads Mikkelsen type. Still, he has none of his son’s lethal prettiness and none of his flirtatious charm. Vasili must have inherited those traits from his mother.

We’ve never met, but the sudden swell of certainty about who this creature must be nearly shatters my skull.

Truly, this damnable complication is the very last thing we need.

“Nikolai Romanov,” I say warily.

“In the flesh,” he murmurs. “Rather unfortunately for you, Lucius Aries.”

Down the back of my neck, my hackles ripple and rise with danger.

Inside my skin, my wolf mutters and paces.

Moving with care to avoid inflaming my migraine, I climb down from my desk (keeping its protective expanse between us, because I’d still like to lunge for his throat). I dip my tortured head with a courtesy I’m far from feeling.

Nikolai Romanov is the mighty prince of the Scorpio clan, one of the great witching families. Not to mention the fellow is also a trustee and patron of this Academy—all honors that demand my respect.

Then there’s his day job.

As much as I’d like to, I can’t simply eject this menacing newcomer from my office by the scruff of his neck like an erring student.

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