Page 78 of Gemini Queen
Left abruptly to my own devices, I press my wobbly legs into service and struggle upright, fumbling to fasten my shirt buttons.
Fuck, that was oneintenseorgasm—
Suddenly Neo rushes back in.
“Your tie,” he murmurs, diving in to knot it neatly at my throat. “I promised.”
He’s blushing again and avoiding my gaze again. Still shy then.
And he’s sweet as fuck.
“Hey, Red,” I say softly, and wait until his kryptonite-green eyes lift to mine. “Next time it’s your turn, yeah?”
“Okay,” he says breathlessly, blush deepening exponentially. “But only, you know, if Zara doesn’t mind.”
“Mind?” I chuckle. “She’s into both of us, isn’t she? She’ll be right in the bloody thick of it.”
Of course, that’s assuming she survives that long.
She’s fresh meat, there’s a queen killer out there, and given that slaughtered koi incident, he’s quite likely on the hunt for her head.
Chapter Twenty-One
Zara
Master Zerxes is giving me the creeps.
In my regular schedule which Lucius put together, I somehow manage to avoid having the scary-as-fuck headmaster of Villa Tiberius as a prof. And I’m guessing Lucius really had to work at that, because it’s a small Academy. But Mistress Agrippina’s just gone down hard with a bad case of food poisoning, so Master Zerxes is subbing for my Genetics of Witchcraft class.
And he’s certainly memorable.
He’s lecturing in a rolling British baritone that purrs and growls and rumbles and effortlessly commands attention, which I guess is his job as a teacher. And I definitely don’t like the guy, but he’s sort of fascinating to watch.
He’s tall and menacing with broad shoulders and a powerful frame under his black robe slashed with sangoire—that’s the color of blood, which I’ve figured out is his house color—and the garment flows around him like liquid shadow. He’s definitely got dramatic flair, and his sweeping gestures make those sangoire slashes appear and vanish like some invisible monster is raking him with unseen claws and he’s magically healing himself.
Which is an unsettling effect.
Not to mention he’s sleek and prowly like a snow leopard as he stalks around the lectern. He’s basically a witching world version of Severus Snape, with glacial blue eyes and a fall of silver hair twisted into a long braid at his nape. And that menacing purr he’s rocking? It’s pure Alan Rickman.
Fifteen years ago—even ten—this guy would’ve been gorgeous with his strong bones and his ruthless mouth. He’s honestly not too shabby on the eyes even now. My substitute prof’s half Mogadon and half Valyrian—insights I gleaned from Racetrack over the breakfast table while I rewired the toaster I short-circuited last night. (With Gemini witchcraft, you gotta learn to do that sort of thing.)
In Bucephalus Zerxes, that genetic legacy is purely lethal.
He pretty much has the predatory instincts of a Mogadon and the telepathic precision of a Valyrian. I’ve been watching him eviscerate my classmates for every tiny lapse in attention or decorum the whole damn period.
Yet Mr. Menacing up there seems perfectly happy to ignore the stinging hail of spitballs those assholes in the back row have been lobbing at my head ever since the bell. A few have hit the back of my neck, which is totally disgusting as well as annoying, and I’m seriously worried there might be some stuck in my ponytail.
But I refuse to give my tormentors the satisfaction of looking.
Or reacting.
In any way.
What.
So.
Ever.
