Page 40 of Gemini Christmas
I love that she’s so casual about it. RT is definitely not the bowing and scraping type.
“Thanks. Santa was good to me this year.” I grin at Zephyr, who’s sharing the couch and the blankey with Vasili and me. The Dark Fae King is still wearing Mordred’s crimson Santa hat and a somewhat bemused expression as his first Christmas kinda explodes around him.
But overall, he’s handling it really well, nibbling warily at a slice of cinnamon toast (way better for him than the rasher of raw bacon he was originally eyeing, because feral).
Mordred, who’s once again decently clad in his Santa suit and emanating contentment from finally hooking up with Lucius, is curled around Zephyr’s legs on the rug. I’m happy to see our kraken still proudly hugging the magically waterproof sealskin backpack, blazoned with the Icarus Academy crest, that Lucius gave him for Secret Santa.
“Ho ho ho, kids! Happy Christmas!” The front door fills with Senator Theo Mercury’s broad-shouldered frame and famous face, flashing his photogenic white-toothed smile in alldirections. Just in case any paparazzi got snowed into this cabin with us.
As if.
Racetrack’s two moms, familiar to me since they hosted us all for Thanksgiving—plus they’re both trustees on the school board—crowd in right behind Theo.
A cheerful chorus of fresh greetings and Christmas wishes fills the air.
Buttoned into his starched shirt and one of the warm cashmere cardigans embroidered with the Clan Aries crest that I got him for Secret Santa, Lucius is once again the classic textbook picture of professorial propriety. Freshly showered and shaved, chestnut hair tied back neatly at his nape, he hurries to help our new arrivals out of their coats and make them feel welcome.
By now, Dez has opened the cat carrier.
A puffy white floof with enormous blue eyes tumbles into view, an oversized plumey tail swirling in her wake.
“Hi, Gemini! Come here, little bear,” I croon (pointlessly, because that kitten totally has a mind of her own, like everyone else in this household).
Our nine-month-old kitten gazes around the chaos that fills the unfamiliar room, lifts her tiny pink nose for a lofty sniff of air thick with the scent of maple syrup and bayberry candles and multiple shifters, then heads straight for Vasili.
Beside me, my dominant alpha stiffens. His slim hands knot in the blanket.
“Oh, blimey.” Ronin abandons his lazy sprawl on the bearskin rug and rolls up sharply to sit. Pushing aside a clutter of unraveled ribbon and tissue paper, he crawls across the floor like a cat himself to intercept the determined kitten before she reaches the sofa I’m sharing with V.
Undeterred, the kitten scampers out of Ronin’s reach and just keeps coming.
“Here, Gem.” Looking worried, Neo pushes up the glasses that are sliding down his nose, then grabs a corkscrew spiral of discarded silver ribbon and wiggles it invitingly to entice our kitten his way.
Probably not the best idea, since our bookworm is sitting right in front of the ornament-laden Yule tree. That’s an invite to mischief that would be an irresistible lure for any average kitten.
But ours is no average kitten. She’s a kitten on a mission. She leaps fearlessly onto the sofa.
Straight into Vasili’s stiffly unwelcoming lap.
I bite my lip, scrunch up my face, and sneak a worried peek at our Goblin King. He harbors a secret ailurophobia (fear of cats). But we’ve been working really hard on it all semester.
Ever since Gemini unexpectedly entered our lives as a found stray bridal gift from Zephyr.
“Think our kitty’s trying to say Merry Christmas to you, bad boy,” I say softly to V.
“Bah, humbug,” Vasili mutters. But one more Christmas miracle unfolds, because he actually tolerates the kneading kitten in his lap.
Even when she digs her tiny claws into his thighs.
Vasili’s breath hisses in and his pupils dilate. But he doesn’t, you know, hurl her off his lap or levitate.
“Hey, Gem, take it easy with my warlock.” I lean over to rescue V from her clutches.
“She’s kneading,” Vasili says briefly, one wary hand settling over her back to hold her in place. “It’s an emotional need. If you deny her comfort, she’ll be scarred for life. Or something.”
“Huh.” I know better than to stare at him or comment. But I do exchange an incredulous look with Ronin, whose own topaz eyes are wide with disbelief.
Bloody hell,Ronin mutters through our bond, very clearly just for my ears.What’s that kitten done with our bloke, then?
