Page 37 of Gemini Christmas
Gently but firmly, I settle Zara back on the pillow. I press a kiss to her trusting forehead, while she cups my cheek in her tender hand and gazes up at me, her periwinkle eyes wide and dreamy.
“I love you, Lucius,” she says unexpectedly. “Merry Christmas.”
“My dear girl.” A giddy rush of love for her—and all our mates—swells in my heart and surges through our mating bond, which softens her face in a smile. “Merry Christmas.”
Then, resolved in my duty to nourish my mate and our offspring, I break away gently and gather myself to rise.
Neo and Ash are already dressed and clumping down the stairs. I pause just long enough to pull on my trousers and button a shirt over my hairy chest, for decency’s sake. Then I’m following them down with Maxim on my heels, the dragon tugging his ripped jeans over his hips and muttering hotly about pancakes.
Halfway down the stairs I notice the fire none of us had time to light, crackling merrily on its own in the great room hearth and doing yeoman’s work to burn off the chill. The fat Christmas tree in the corner—the same tree whose lights Zara blew out so spectacularly with her last climax—is brilliantly lit once more with strings of tiny twinkling bulbs. The Star of David shines, gold and silver, at the top. The row of stockings nailed over the hearth is newly bulging with what certainly ought to be shovels full of coal, given all our misdeeds and misdemeanors over the past year.
More of the cottage’s Christmas magic at work.
As though triggered by my thought, the gramophone whirs into life. An old-fashioned record drops onto the spinningturntable. The needle lowers to the grooves. An instant later, the silence fills with the sprightly strains of Bing Crosby singing “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town”.
The sizzle of butter hitting a griddle floats from the kitchen, followed by the mouthwatering scent of frying bacon.
Drawn by the aroma, Maxim overtakes me on the stairs and swarms into the kitchen with a growl like the hungry dragon he is.
Moving more sedately, I pad barefooted into the haven of warmth and savory odors that fill the shiny 1960s era kitchen, with its cheerful goldenrod appliances and big six-burner stove steaming with frying pans next to an enormous bowl of pancake batter.
While Maxim hovers over the sizzling skillet of bacon with a big serving fork and an intent expression, Neo putters cheerfully around the coffeepot. I remain just long enough to collect from the gleaming counter an icy pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a handful of tall glasses painted with “Jingle Bells” and “Deck the Halls” motifs.
A dose of Vitamin C is just what Mordred needs to speed the healing of his mating bite. And Vasili can undoubtedly use the restorative as well, after all those calories he burned playing our resident Krampus last night.
I return with my haul to the bedroom loft to find Zara and Mordred cuddled up in bed with Vasili, while a still naked Ronin kindles a fire in the bedroom hearth the old-fashioned way.
With a ball of psi fire.
I spare an appreciative eye for the flex of Ronin’s traffic-stopping ass, nicely framed by the spill of his sleek black hair, as he crouches near the fire. Since we mated, his already-long hair has grown even longer. Long enough to wrap around his lovers when he fucks.
Long enough to wrap around my fists when I’m buried balls-deep and knotting him.
“You might as well all stay in bed until the room is warmer, my dears,” I say over the whoosh and crackle lighting up the hearth (to say nothing of my blazing internal fire). “Neo’s coming along with coffee in a bit. Then I very much believe a full Christmas breakfast will be served downstairs, courtesy of the cottage.”
Zara is nose-deep in her glass of orange juice, eyes closed in appreciation and humming blissfully over the tart citrus kick, when Zephyr appears silently in the doorway.
From my own comfortable seat on the side of the bed, with Mordred’s webbed feet shoved cozily in my lap, I eye the square gift-wrapped box Zephyr is carrying, silver and gold wrappings crowned with an enormous green velvet bow.
Every eye rests with interest on Zephyr as the Dark Fae King advances on the bed, bearing the gift proudly before him like Salome with John the Baptist’s head on a platter. He spares one of his subtle smiles for Vasili, who’s watching him closely, while trying very hard to appear as though he’s not.
Then Zephyr’s eye veers to Zara. Gently he deposits the gift in her lap.
“For me?” Wide-eyed as a child, she blinks up at him.
“My bride, I crafted this for you weeks ago in Avalon,” Zephyr says softly. “Merry Christmas from your Secret Santa.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair.” Malevolent as an adder, Vasili pouts into his orange juice. “MySecret Santa gift is still somewhere in the trunk of that ridiculous car.”
“Not to worry, beautiful one.” Zephyr’s eyelid drops in a slow wink. His subtle smile deepens to a grin that creases his cheek. “I can wait.”
I already knew Vasili is Zephyr’s Secret Santa, because Vasili took Ash and me into his confidence (for once) and we schemed and plotted, thick as thieves, over Zephyr’s gift.
Mordred, who apparentlyhadn’tknown, throws back his head in a hearty shout of laughter.
“Wicked fuck.” Vasili’s lips part in indignation. “How on earth did you know? That was supposed to be asecret.”
“You procured my gift in Avalon. No one passes through the Avalon portal without my knowledge. I’m the Dark Fae King.” Zephyr looks as though he’s enjoying Vasili’s discomfiture, but thankfully he’s wise enough not to make it obvious.
