Page 65 of Gemini Hunted (Dark Witch Academy #5)

Zara

“ Cavolo, bella.” Cleo exhales one of her long drama queen sighs. “Believe it or not, I don’t actually want your crown. The truth is, I never wanted it. But my wishes have always been irrelevant. I never believed I had a choice.”

I’m curled up in the depths of the Renaissance sofa in our domus great room with the kitten (who really needs a name when we have a minute) sleeping peacefully in my lap. Both of us are engulfed in the fragrant steam of the enormous mug of Neo’s peppermint cocoa I’m cupping in my hands.

Beyond the sliding-glass doors, dawn is lightening the confines of our Roman-style courtyard, shimmering purple along the surface of our in-ground pool where Mordred is taking a quick dip, and painting the sky pink with Mediterranean sunrise.

I can already hear the drone of helicopter rotors as the first WNN news crews circle our villa. They’re all hoping for an exclusive with the new queen and her eight warlocks.

As if the X-rated spectacle of all nine of us fucking on live TV was somehow not enough to satiate even the most avid subscriber in their viewing audience.

But I’m not gonna get sidetracked by the paparazzi.

“Sorry, Sunshine, but I’m not buying it,” I tell my ex-BFF. Cleo’s curled up alone on the ottoman, dewy-eyed and flushed from the shower we begrudgingly let her take in our thermae . Long limbs engulfed in a borrowed Academy bathrobe, she’s pensively sipping a mug of black coffee (no calories).

My many grievances against my ex have lost the worst of their sting since I won the throne and she lost, but they’re still facts. I tick them off with my fingers. “Let’s see. You lied to me, betrayed me, literally tried to kill me—”

“Oh, please.” Cleo shoots me a look of sheer exasperation. “If I wanted you dead, amore mio , I would not have resorted to my fists or pushed you—a levitating Mogadon, of all witches!—off a study carrel roof. Believe me, I know better ways to kill.”

“Yeah, see, that right there’s another problem,” Ash points out. His big body is sprawled across the sofa beside me, with one arm slung around my shoulders and one around Zephyr, who’s finally stopped pacing long enough to accept a mug of herbal tea from Lucius.

Now Lucius is tied up on the landline. But the comforting murmur of his voice floats from the doorway where he’s stationed himself, phone cord stretched to the max, so his wolf can keep a protective eye fixed on me.

His freshly knotted mate.

Lucius’ steady voice and Ash’s solid strength, mingled with Zephyr’s burnt amber and nutmeg scent, are all grounding as fuck. God knows, right now we all need that. Gratefully I lean into Ash and rub my cheek against his hand to scent him.

Good for Cleo to remember he’s mine.

They’re all mine.

My ex-bestie’s violet eyes flicker wistfully over me and my guys on the couch, drift past Neo cuddled happily on the carpet at our feet, then lift to find Max, who’s prowling and lurking behind the couch like the alpha dragon shifter he is.

“Be more specific, Asher,” Cleo murmurs. “What problem precisely do you mean?”

“You being a trained killer,” Ash tells her flatly. “And being one for years, apparently. How the heck does that even happen?”

“Don’t blame Ms. Ferrari. Those were the terms of my arrangement with Messalina, agreed when Cleopatra was still very young.

” Nikolai Romanov has been standing so still before the glass doors (an escape route in case our come-to-Jesus convo goes to shit) that half the room’s forgotten he’s standing there.

Vasili and my other alphas and Cleo and me, we haven’t forgotten.

Not for a sec.

Nikolai Romanov is the deadliest man in this room, even now when he’s trying to play nice.

Especially now.

After their long and agonizing father-son estrangement, I really worry about the effect of his prolonged presence on Vasili.

Now, in the face of Romanov Senior’s enigmatic comment which hasn’t actually explained anything, V heaves a put-upon sigh from the dining room table where he’s ensconced in his kimono, dabbing on high-end facial serum with the aid of an elegant hand-held mirror.

After our various ordeals and their aftermath, we’ve all showered (except Nikolai, who seems way too tense for that). And shortly we’re all supposed to be eating Belgian waffles, judging by the homey sounds and yeasty smells emanating from the kitchen where Dez and Racetrack are cooking.

“He imagines he’s answered your question, so that’s all the information you’re likely to get from him.

” Vasili waves his serum dropper in his father’s general direction.

“But I can tell you what you want to know. Cleopatra’s been sneaking visits to papochka ’s Crimean dacha and his Seychelles yacht since she was in diapers… practically.”

Silhouetted against the sunrise, V’s dad stirs. “Vasya, you were never intended to—”

“What?” V gives him the Romanov eyebrow.

“ Know? I have eyes and ears, don’t I? She was your perfect little protégée , trained up in the AIB red room to spy and steal and kill.

That’s how you hid her from the world. Which is what Messalina asked you to do—hide her secret, half-Fae daughter from a world that had forgotten the Fae existed.

She left all the pesky minor details of how to care for the brat to you. ”

Having unburdened himself of all this, Vasili takes up his rose quartz facial roller and starts smoothing serum over his cheekbones.

By giving himself a complete facial at the dining room table and rubbing his homophobic father’s nose in it, V is more than making his point.

He’s flipping his father the bird.

“But that’s what I don’t get. Why hide her at all?” Mallory is curled up on the other couch with her Cajun shifter, sipping orange juice and looking all First Girl attentive, while Draco mixes another round of incredibly potent-looking Screwdrivers for himself and Jae at the liquor cabinet.

“I mean,” Mal ventures, “Cleo was the royal heir, so…”

“I was never the heir.” Cleo frowns into her coffee, long lashes hiding her violet eyes.

“I was merely the spare. My mother’s legitimate heir was her pureblooded Aquarius daughter Cybelle—my half-sister.

Until Cybelle was murdered by the queen killer.

” Her low tone turns brittle. “Only then did I become useful.”

From his vantage at the window, Nikolai’s slim body twitches. “You were always useful. To me.”

“Ah, si , for the AIB, I have always had my uses.” Cleo darts her mentor an inscrutable look. “For you and for them, I’m an expensive investment. Too expensive to waste.”

Nikolai’s dark head snaps toward her. “You will not be wasted. As the new queen’s consort—”

“No!” Cleo exclaims (thankfully) before I can swallow my mouthful of cocoa and nope out myself on boarding that crazy train Le Chiffre over there is still riding. “If you and the AIB are finally willing to accept Zara on the throne, then I too can concede. And finally dare to dream of what I want.”

Her voice sinks nearly to a whisper. “If I’m even capable of dreaming for myself after all these years.”

Okay, I gotta admit it.

Even though I’ll never trust her again after all the shit she’s pulled, I’m feeling a tiny (very tiny) tug of sympathy for my ex-GF.

Far as I can tell, her mom tucked her away like a guilty secret to protect Cybelle’s shaky claim to the throne, even though Cleo was actually the elder and obviously the stronger witch.

It doesn’t take much imagination to grasp that Cleo’s upbringing as a trained killer in the AIB red room wasn’t exactly a seaside holiday.

Plus there’s the obvious fact that Cleo’s AIB mentor has some kinda emotional hold on her that neither one of them seems very comfy with. (Though it doesn’t seem to stop Nikolai from using her, he’s definitely a Romanov in that regard.)

Now Nikolai pivots to face her directly. “If you refuse to obey my orders, Cleopatra, I can hardly protect you—”

“Somehow,” I lean forward to point out, “I don’t think she needs your protection anymore, Le Chiffre.

Or anyone’s. She’s already renounced her claim and acknowledged mine on WNN.

” That impromptu press gaggle was a stroke of brilliance arranged by Senator Mercury, for which I intend to thank Neo’s dad when I see him. “Who else is gonna hunt her?”

Now, for some reason, both Nikolai and Cleo give me inscrutable looks.

Then Cleo lowers her cup to the coffee table, gathers her robe at her throat in a graceful hand, and rises smoothly to her feet.

“I’m fully booked for Paris Fashion Week. This is the next place I will go. Then, eh?” One shoulder lifts in an artless shrug. “We’ll see.”

Maybe my brain is playing tricks on me, because it’s been two days since I slept. But it seems to me that, given our collective fatigue, my ex-bestie’s Italian accent might be slipping.

One more piece of her disguise falling away.

How many more layers does she still have left to lose?

A mini commotion ensues while Cleo glides elegantly upstairs to dress.

Nikolai excuses himself abruptly and leaves without her.

A flurry of goodbyes and thank you’s need to be said as Jae and Draco usher a tired-looking Mallory (whom I suddenly recall is pregnant, a fact not generally known) out the door for their domus and some badly needed sleep.

Ronin coaxes Vasili to shift his extensive beauty ritual from the dining room to the bathroom, then persuades Max to stop lurking and hovering over me long enough to help Ronin set the table for breakfast.

Mordred tromps in grinning from the courtyard pool, dripping from his sunrise swim.

Neo wheedles fresh coffee from our temperamental espresso machine while Ash helps Dez and RT plate the waffles. Zephyr slips out quietly to check on Xhevith, who needs a proper dragonlair established somewhere around here once the dust settles.

Add that task to the already rapidly expanding list of my queenly duties, right after naming our kitten, getting some shuteye, addressing my new subjects in a real press conference and officially announcing my engagement to all eight of my kings, then shopping for wedding rings on the Italian mainland with my warlocks.

Meanwhile, Lucius wraps up a murmured phone call in Hungarian with his aristocratic grandsire on the landline, then hurries over to shift our limp and sleeping kitten from my lap to his nice comfy shoulder and squire me to the table for breakfast.

Pretty drowsy and sluggish (but also hungry) now that the excitement’s behind us—I mean, you know, for now—I’m more than happy to reach for Lucius’ outstretched hand, relying on his strength to pull me to my feet.

I’m barely standing when Lucius utters an exclamation of shock and falls back.

“What?” Naturally, I jump like a cat and twist around to look behind me, with my heart pounding and my inner dragon (who was snoozing) chirping with annoyance. “I mean, literally, what now? You’re white as milk, Lucius.”

My headmaster doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring at me like he’s riveted. Or more specifically, he’s staring at my hands, poking from the oversized sleeves of Neo’s Academy hoodie which I’ve bundled into for comfort.

I follow his gaze, push back my sleeves, and discover something adorning my own body that’s totally new. A stipple of quicksilver pigmentation along the back of my hands and twining around my wrists. The markings look sort of like a henna tattoo, only silver. They’re really pretty.

But not something I put there.

“What the actual fuck, Lucius?” I extend both arms so we can all stare.

“Forgive me, my dear,” my headmaster says swiftly, while the rest of my guys rush over to cluster protectively around me. Even a startled Vasili zips from the bathroom (levitating) and darts to my side, giving his alpha free rein.

“There’s no cause for alarm,” Lucius tells the room, clearly chagrined for scaring us.

“I will be the judge of that.” Max’s nostrils flare and his voice drops to a dragonish rumble. “What threatens my mate!”

“Nothing threatens her.” Lucius’ own voice trembles with barely suppressed emotion.

His face is flushed and his eyes glitter with powerful sentiment.

“Those markings on her hands are a well-known sign, a very early one, among wolf shifters. It’s just that…

with so many mates in the polycule, I simply never dared to hope… ”

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, Teach.” Alarm replaced by a growing prickle of curiosity, I tilt my head and give my headmaster a wry look. “We’re all definitely listening.”

“Zara—my dear girl—I can scarcely believe—” Lucius’ voice splinters and breaks. He clasps my hands in his string warm grip. His incredulous gaze, shining with joy, clings to mine. “You’re pregnant. And at least one of the offspring you carry is mine.”