Page 53 of Gemini Queen
I’m standing on the landing outside my fated mate’s bedroom with a box of pizza balanced in my hands and my whole heart jammed up in my throat. Dinner time has come and gone. Thedomusis still redolent with the peppery bite of wasabi.
But Zara never showed up to eat.
Not even after Dez went up to knock on her door and tried to lure her out with a fresh California roll, offered with Dez’s general niceness.
There’s a lot going on in thisdomusright now that I don’t understand. For one, something’s up between Ronin and Lucius that made our always complicated atmospherics at the dinner table even more fraught than usual. Ronin isn’t actually looking well. He’s irritable and feverish, and I caught him pilfering aspirin from the medicine cabinet after dinner. When I mustered the courage to ask if he’s okay, blushing the way I do every single time I talk to him and silently cursing my fair complexion that always makes it so obvious, he just snarled at me to mind my own business.
As for Vasili, who usually amuses himself at dinner by hurling humorous little zingers at me and smirking over his own nonexistent wit, he’s spent the entire night scowling at Lucius.
Our headmaster, too, seems worried and distracted.
Racetrack and Dez disappeared right after dinner, no doubt seeking refuge from the tension. Now everyone’s finally settling down for the night.
Except me.
I stare at Zara’s firmly closed door and feel so anxious I can hardly breathe. Having her actually here with me in this house is like a dream. But enduring her anger, most of it clearly directed at me for enrolling her against her will, has been a nightmare.
Now I straighten my shoulders, adjust the six-pack of Italian beer wedged between my hip and my elbow, and knock gently on her door with my foot.
“Zara? It’s me… Neo.” I remember to add my name, because she can’t be expected to recognize my voice. She doesn’t appear to have spent all these years yearning for me the way I’ve been yearning for her. “I brought you something to eat.”
“Not in the mood for sushi.” Her voice filters under the door. “I’ll scrounge up something from the fridge later. Don’t worry about me.”
As if I can stop. My heart sinks to the soles of my suede shoes, but I’m not so easily discouraged. Worrying about Zara Gemini, yearning for Zara Gemini, dreaming up ways to take care of Zara Gemini… well, that’s what I do.
Besides, she needs me. She really does.
Whether she wants to admit it or not.
“You know Racetrack didn’t actually bring that koi into the house,” I offer. “We all take turns cooking dinner, and she always makes sushi. Culinary variety isn’t her strong suit. And neither is sensitivity, unfortunately. I hope you won’t hold it against her.”
I hear a snort, but my fated mate says nothing, and I’m determined to respect her wishes and not go rooting around in the bond between us to read her thoughts.
So I try again, the conventional way. “I gave that koi an honorable burial at sea. It’s part of the food chain now—I mean, the marine food chain, not ours in the kitchen. So you don’t have to worry about dealing with it.”
It still makes me frantic to think of someone threatening her, frightening her, hurting her. And it’s not just anyone doing it. Somewhere on this island, there’s a queen killer lurking. Of course, Zara has us—her courtiers—to protect her. Speaking for myself, I’ll absolutely kill to protect her. And given what happened in Vegas, obviously Zara herself is far from helpless, even if she’s not comfortable using her witchcraft.
Still, the thought of my fated mate in danger makes me want to commit murder myself.
Zara’s still not talking, but I sense her listening, right on the other side of this door.
So I cross my mental fingers (since my hands are full) and play my best card. “I’ve got homemade pizza. It’s pepperoni and mushroom. Your favorite.”
Finally, the door swings open. My heart floats up somewhere around my ears, the same way it always does when I see her. Her wonderful mermaid hair’s tied up in two sexy pigtails and she’s standing there barefoot, wearing the yoga pants and hot pink tee shirt I left in her room earlier, now that I know how much she hates the standard uniform stocking her armoire.
Zara doesn’t do standard. Everything she does is extraordinary.
Seeing her comfortable wearing the clothes I left her, even if she doesn’t know it, fills me with a giddy rush of happiness.
She eyes me, looming on her doorstep with my big box of pizza. Her teal eyebrows lift toward her hairline.
Damn it. I’m standing there grinning at her like a circus freak.
“One,” she announces, unfolding a finger that glitters with her wild polish. “It’s weird and borderline stalkery that you know my favorite toppings, and you definitely shouldn’t advertise it. Two.” She unfolds a second finger. “I’m still pissed at you, though I know you meant well. And three.” She adds a third finger, and I’m spiraling down into despair, but the tilt of a smile on her pretty lips arrests my descent. “I’m starving and I love pizza, so you’re forgiven.”
She steps back so I can come in.
Dizzy with success, it’s all I can manage to slip past her into thesanctum sanctorumof my fated mate’s boudoir without dropping her pizza. I’ve been entertaining gloomy visions of having to leave it on her doorstep and slink off in disgrace.
