Page 111 of Gemini Kings
“Bloody hell, Lucius, how’s that even possible?” Ronin blurts, his own soup forgotten some time ago. “Haven’t old rumors been, like, overtaken by events? Messalina’s the last Aquarius bitch, and Zara’s the Gemini scion. The Senate already voted. She’s fuckingnext.”
Seated at the head of the family table, Lucius opens his mouth to answer. He’s allegedly gotten all his insight from the paper, just flown in on the latest supply plane. But he’s also the Aries scion, and the entire Aries clan is rich as Midas. It’s Old World money, stodgy and respectable, completely unlike my own clan’s ill-gotten gains.
For these reasons, I’ve long suspected Lucius has his own sources of intelligence on the mainland.
“It is possible because Messalina is not the last Aquarius bitch.” This information emerges unexpectedly from the dragon (of all creatures) who’s seated across the table from me, and who hasn’t even glanced at the paper, because darling Zara’s been hogging it (admittedly, she’s entitled) ever since Lucius plucked the rag from his briefcase.
Maxim has already downed at least three bowls of soup at a furious rate, with a protective arm crooked around his bowl as though he fully expects to fight for every drop. At the rate that soup is disappearing, Ronin will shortly need to make more.
Next time, someone else can shuck the damn oysters.
True, I suppose Maxim can use the extra calories to beef up that lean but not unattractive (if I’m being honest) starvation chic physique.
“That’s exactly what it says in this paper. Even though Cybelle’s dead, and the bitch didn’t have any siblings. What I wanna know is howyouknow that, big guy.” Zara sashays straight across the room to hover over the dragon.
My, my. Our queen looks deliciously fuckable in her short plaid skirt with her blouse half-unbuttoned and her hair tied up in pigtails.
Despite her preoccupation with that news grenade whose trigger pin this infuriating dragon has just casually pulled, I notice she’s still careful not to lurk about behind him.
Truly, I’m more than a bit dissatisfied with my own observational skills, which are typically exemplary. That damned kissing dragon has had me so flustered and so distracted that it actually required that little byplay in the kitchen—specifically Ronin’s telling comment about not approaching Maxim from behind—for the cliché lightbulb to illuminate in my fiendish brain.
As a child, Maxim was abused.
Of course he was.
I vaguely recall from our charming family holiday that his entire clutch of brothers is hideously scarred, because that sort of thing is rather difficult to hide during a summer holiday on a yacht, but I merely took it as evidence of some grotesque communal dragon sport and never gave their shared mutilation another thought. (Yes, darling, I know. I’m horribly self-obsessed. In my own defense, I was barely eighteen at the time, and struggling to come out to my homophobic father as gay.)
Maxim finally stops vacuuming up his soup and dabs his rapidly healing mouth with his linen napkin. Of course, he’s pure shifter, which means his injuries are healing at a furious pace. Table manners seem largely foreign to the Siberian kissy monster over there, but I’ve noticed he watches us all quite carefully, and imitates what he sees with some skill.
He may not be formally educated, but I’ll admit (privately… if I must) that he’s not acompleteidiot.
“Cybelle was Messalina’s only known child,” Maxim says to Zara. “The fruit of a legal and legitimate union with her harem. However, there is more than rumor to suggest she had a bastard in secret—a daughter—when she was very young. This supporting information is, how would you say, classified? Only the Arcane Investigation Bureau has access.”
“Fuck. Me.” This is Racetrack’s eloquent contribution, mumbled through her crusty baguette.
We’ve abruptly fallen silent enough in thisdomusthat I can practically hear the snow fall in the moonlit street beyond our window.
This juicy dragonish tidbit certainly explains a great deal about our latest predicament. While each of my queen’s courtiers is digesting that tidbit in his or her own way, I savor the fact that our dragon’s just inserted his taloned foot into his sexy mouth.
“Now you’re really gonna need to explain to me how you know that, Max,” Zara says softly. She’s leaning over the table, her glittery fingernails tapping a restless tattoo on the surface. “How you got access to classified AIB files. And why the fuck you kept it to yourself till just now.”
He looks up at her, and his slitted pupils dilate. He may be accustomed to protecting his secrets (nearly as well as I do, so one mustn’t hurl stones).
Still, he clearly grasps that our queen will judge him now by his honesty.
“I learned from my mother,” he says curtly, with an utter lack of sentiment any sociopath would envy. “Sometimes she kills for them—the AIB. She kills for pleasure. She savors the hunt. But she barters her kills for secrets, which are a dragon’s favorite treasure. This secret is one I overheard years ago. Long before I came to you.”
“You kept all that pretty quiet, big guy,” she breathes.
“I meant from the start to tell you. I was waiting for… the right moment.” His dragonish face turns crafty. “For that moment when I knew you would trust me.”
Her aqua eyes narrow to slits. “You mean you were waiting till we fucked.”
“Yes,” he agrees, with no attempt whatsoever at modesty. “I knew it would not take long.”
Truly, this entire situation is intolerable.
They’re clearly forming a mating bond, even though she doesn’t want one. The latest indication of that detestable bond is the way my precious girl takes one long look into those crocodile eyes of his and inexplicably concludes this reptile is telling the truth.
