Page 36 of Gemini Queen
And somehow, even though I didn’t intend to make a particularly noisy entrance, every single one of those students is staring at me like I’ve just blown a freaking trumpet to announce my arrival.
My skin prickles and goosebumps crawl down my arms.
This is Purgatory, there’s no benevolent God in sight, I’m fresh meat, and somewhere in this room there’s a queen killer who wants to make me bleed.
Or burn.
I find myself looking for Ronin, even though there’s no actual reason to believe he’s on my side since, one, he hates Geminis and, two, he was fairly instrumental in kidnapping my ass to bring me here. But at least he’d be a familiar face.
Unfortunately (or fortunately?) Ronin’s nowhere in sight.
But something is pulling at me, a steady current like a vortex that’s sucking my gaze to the massive circular couch parked under the windows. It’s a primo placement with good light in this dim and drafty hangout, tucked right up next to the biggest brazier, and the real estate is definitely taken. A bunch of students are scattered there.
But there’s only one worth noticing.
And boy does he know it.
He’s sprawled across the center seat, arms spread across the back of the couch to claim the whole space and keep anyone else from getting too close, legs planted well apart on the floor. Another guy’s sitting on the rug between his feet and sort of leaning against the first guy’s leg, cheek resting against his knee.
And the guy on the couch is crazy beautiful. Like the most beautiful human I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Maybe the most beautiful on the planet.
He’s an icy blond, with longish hair tousled and moussed in shaggy layers, so gilded it’s almost silver, razor-cut to graze his sharp jaw. His oblong eyes are a blue so pale they look like frost, rimmed in smoky black to make them pop. He’s sexy pretty, with exotic features that are almost delicate and a cruel mouth slicked with a swipe of clear gloss. Add a wickedly tall, whippet-thin body, effortlessly on trend in the severe blazer and trousers of Academy gear, a tie tugged loose at his elegant throat, and combat boots with thick purple soles. Under pale cuffs, diamonds sparkle on his long fingers.
This guy’s gorgeous enough and androgynous enough to give David Bowie’s Goblin King in the movieLabyrintha real run for his money.
He’s staring straight at me. And the glitter in his glacial gaze is pure malice.
Neo closes the door behind us with a whomp that seals out the frigid wind and makes me flinch. The Goblin King absorbs my reaction and his eyes harden. I feel like looking away from him would be a mistake, but this staring contest is getting super awkward.
“Come on, Zara,” Neo says softly in my ear, and the Goblin King’s knife-sharp gaze swerves to skewer him. If anything, those deadly eyes turn even more contemptuous. “Let’s get unbundled and get you some lunch.”
This suggestion finally gives me the face-saving cover I need to turn away from the Goblin King.
But I can feel those cruel eyes drilling holes in my back all the way to the coat rack.
With all these fires going, it’s reasonably temperate in here despite the vast space and high ceiling. We take refuge near a coat rack and a row of boots dripping with melted snow. This lets me concentrate on getting out of my peacoat and swapping out my boots for the mary janes in my backpack and basically not throwing up on the floor from nerves.
Thankfully, the convo’s picking up again behind me, all scattered hisses and the occasional riff of malicious laughter. I’m careful not to look directly toward the circular couch, but I keep it in my peripheral vision.
“Who’s the Goblin King?” I mutter.
Neo snorts a grim chuckle. “That’s Vasili Romanov. He should’ve greeted you, because he’s Villa Augustus and technically a member of your court.”
“I’m just as glad he didn’t,” I say.
“He disrespected you with his silence. Ideally, you should address it.”
Yeah, no. I don’t feel ready to address the Goblin King before I’ve even had my morning coffee.
Instead, I focus on buckling on my mary janes and mourning the loss of the platform boots I had in Singapore. Not to mention the stiletto I packed inside them. In those boots, I can kick major ass.
In these pumps and this freaking skirt, I can’t even kick a soccer ball.
Behind us the whispers are picking up steam. Despite our recent fight and the fact that we’re in the middle of breaking up, I’m incredibly grateful for Neo’s comforting presence beside me, getting out of his coat too. That feeling of comfort evaporates when I pick up the hurriedtap-tap-tapof feet coming up fast on the flagstones behind me.
I crouch and pivot, ready to defend myself with my lethally trained fists.
