Page 14 of Gemini Hunted
Only we don’t have the Horn.
And maybe Cleo’s team does.
I’m starting to lose my grip, heavy fatigue clouding my thoughts and weighing down every limb, when I glimpse the warm glow of a lantern bobbing on an inflatable orange dinghy.
That’s Neo and theFilibuster, moored to the rocky outcrop that marks the end of this drift dive for Ronin and me.
I use the last of my fading strength to help Ronin propel us through the churn toward the dinghy. The dark figure at the prow tosses out an orange life jacket on a rope to meet us halfway. I wrap a chilled but thankful arm around the flotation device and Neo hauls us swiftly the last few feet through the furious seas.
Dimly I’m aware there are two of my warlocks—Neo and Lucius, both zipped into life jackets and drenched to the skin—dragging Ronin and me over the gunwale into the boat. Concerned hands lift the visor from my face and settle me into the stern. Beneath me, the dinghy pitches and rolls.
By now, my teeth are chattering with shock and exposure. Even when I clench my molars to suppress that shit.
“L-L-Lucius.” I unlock my jaws long enough to chatter into my headmaster’s pale face. He crouches protectively over me, dark hair plastered to his head, eyes glowing a wicked red in the darkness. “W-we n-n-n-need to go back d-d-down.”
“Don’t even think of it, my dear.” Firmly Lucius wraps me in an oversized mackintosh to shelter me from the lashing rain. Gently he closes my fingers around an insulated thermos that emanates the blissful acrid smell of coffee. “This tropical storm is turning into a full-blown cyclone. Staying on the water at all, much less diving in it, would be a suicide mission.”
I pause only long enough to slurp a bracing gulp of scalding coffee, laced with the bite of Irish whiskey. My eyes drift closed in momentary bliss. Like a magic potion, the hot java moistens my dry mouth, coats my parched throat, and seeds my cold tummy with a kernel of precious warmth.
Ambrosia.
Doggedly, I force my eyes open and push up to sit.
“We have to, Lucius,” I project my hoarse voice above the hiss and patter of rain so I can also reach Neo, who’s busy in the prow, taking care of Ronin. “We have to go back. We don’t have the Horn.”
Chapter Four
Lucius
To my profound relief, Zara has finally stopped shivering.
My precious mate is buried in the velvet depths of the sectional sofa, her tiny body wrapped in yoga pants and Neo’s oversized Academy sweatshirt, knees drawn tight to her chest and a steaming mug of peppermint cocoa (blazoned with this yacht’s lofty name) gripped in her small hands. The salon’s subdued lighting, dimmed for comfort as the vessel rocks violently on these sloppy seas, plays over the damp teal ponytail that spills down her shoulder.
I’m relieved beyond measure to see color steal back to her pale cheeks.
And wary beyond measure to see her soft mouth regain its familiar stubborn tilt.
As for myself, I struggle unsuccessfully not to hover—although it’s a cosseting behavior she tolerates from me tonight. For once, she’s letting me express the alpha instinct flooding my overprotective body. Allowing herself to lean into my strength. Still, I don’t want to press my luck.
Merciful Christ.
My queen. My student. My mate.
She’s mine to protect.
Mine.
She nearlydied.
The mere notion plunges my sharp shifter incisors from my palate to fill my mouth. I slaver like a mad dog with the rabid need to tear out Nikolai Romanov’s throat.
Of course, Zara downplays the severity of the incident. But I plucked the truth from Ronin’s mind while Neo and I bundled our exhausted mates back to the yacht.
Zara’s clutching that mug I brought her like a talisman, but she isn’t drinking. She’s clearly exhausted, but she isn’t sleeping.
Incandescent with resolve and the eerie glow of psi fire, her turquoise eyes are fixed on the dark rain-washed glass. As though she can peer straight through the storm to wherever that wretched Horn is hiding.
Over the howl of wind around the hull and the hammer of rain against the deck, my keen wolfish senses can barely discern the comforting hiss of the shower from the head below, where Ronin is soaking the chill from his storm-battered bones.
