Page 67 of Gemini Queen
Admittedly, I feel guilty for ghosting him.
Which is exactly why I don’t do relationships.
At this ungodly hour, the house is still and shadowy, and it definitely doesn’t make me happy that the hallway light doesn’t work when I hit the switch. Neither does the one on the stairs. This means I’m blowing fuses again.
Which means my careful control over my witchcraft is slipping.
God help this house if I summon lightning.
Frowning, I veer to avoid the distant clatter of crockery and Racetrack grumbling over something in the kitchen. The acrid scent of coffee almost derails me, but I recall from the house rules in my packet that the boys get dibs on thethermaestarting in exactly—I check my watch—nineteen minutes.
I aim to be well clear of the place before that horrible Vasili shows up.
The basementthermaeis a Roman bath, and it looks like an actual restored ruin. The main room’s dominated by a big built-in soaking pool, lit from beneath by deep green lights. The surface steams and bubbles with water that’s cloudy with minerals and smells like rotten eggs from the sulfur. A row of crumbling pillars marches down both sides under a skylight rimed with frost. As I pad through the steamy heat, my footsteps echo on the mosaic floors with their scrolling patterns.
Seems like I’ve got the place all to myself.
Thank fuck.
Behind a glass wall I find the perfect six-person shower, shiny rows of rain shower heads poking down from sea-green tiles. There’s even a thick pile of towels in the changing room, and an actual Finnish sauna.
I may not be here by choice, but I gotta admit the whole setup is really nice, and the warmth is so much more temperate than the rest of the house. It’s relaxing just standing here. Still, cognizant of the boys’ imminent arrival, I strip right down in the changing room and crank up two of the rain shower heads to give myself plenty of steam. Within seconds, the whole glass wall has totally steamed over.
Now I can no longer see into—or be seen from—the big room with the soaking pool.
This is the first real shower I’ve had since Singapore, and it honestly feels like heaven. My bumps and bruises from that night are all but healed, thanks to that little shot of shifter DNA in the Gemini cocktail. I try to hurry through my lather-and-rinse routine with my color-treated shampoo and the deep conditioner that keeps my turquoise waves quasi-tamed. These are exactly the products I use at home, just another little reminder of how close someone at this Academy’s been watching me. How the hell could I have missed that kind of scrutiny?
I can hardly believe I’m actually starting to wonder if maybe Cleo or Xiao sold me out. And if one of them might have been feeding the Academy intel on me long before that night in Singapore.
I mean, it’s not like the three of us are fated mates or anything. We’re pals, fuck buddies, partners in crime. Friends. Still, I really don’t like to consider the possibility that one of my ownménagemight have betrayed me.
It just hurts way too much to process.
So I won’t. And I won’t ask the question either. Not right now. Until and unless I learn otherwise, I’m putting that whole idea of being betrayed by Cleo or Xiao on the back burner in my brain. That’s easier to do than you might think, because I’ve got more than enough to worry about right here.
Like the fact that I really, really shouldn’t have slept with Neo.
Because this time, I’m the one who’s violating a trust. I already hate myself for doing it.
Heaving a sigh, I pop open the bottle of body wash. The silky pink goop is exactly the high-end roses-and-vanilla label I love, and this hot water is melting all the tension from my strung-out body, so it’s really hard to hurry.
I’m in the middle of rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when, abruptly, the nice steamy water goes cold.
In less than ten seconds, I’m standing in an arctic cascade of ice.
With a yelp, I scramble out from under the shocking spray and fiddle with the knobs, but no joy. This water is absolutely fucking frigid. I can barely stand to stick my head back under long enough to rinse out the soap.
The hot water tank in this joint must be miniscule, and I’m resentful as hell over it. Blue-lipped and shivering, I knot a thick sage towel around my torso and rush into the changing room for my clothes.
“Well, princess, it’s about fucking time.” Vasili Romanov’s velvety drawl, edged in his Russian accent, sends fear and fury spurting through my veins. “I haven’t all day to waste loitering in thethermaewhile you undertake literally the world’s longest shower. Hence my excursion to the hot water tank.”
My nemesis is lounging gracefully against the pale bamboo of the lockers, one hand wrapped in casual possession around a steaming mug of fragrant coffee that makes me hate him even more (if that’s possible). He’s dazzling as always in the tailored blue blazer and trousers of his uniform, silver tie loose in some complicated twist, colorful gemstones glittering on his fingers, frosted hair artfully tousled. His cobalt-soled combat boots add the final flourish of rock star chic.
Under his smoky liner, his eyes look a bit haggard, like maybe he hasn’t slept. Well, cry me a river. I doubt he’s losing sleep over the way he’s bullying me.
The latest example being his complete and total sabotage of my well-earned shower.
Prick.
