Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Zara
This time, the orgy is not my fault.
No, really. It isn’t.
I mean, yes, I have a history of starting them (kinda by accident) when I go into heat in public. But I’m definitely not in heat now.
Not while I’m visibly pregnant, smack dab in the middle of Christmas night.
Not while I’m standing in the ginormous Great Hall of the luxe mountain lodge where Senator Theo Mercury is hosting hundreds of witching world glitterati for the holiday.
And definitely not while we’re all literally celebrating my inaugural Christmas as the first Gemini Queen of the witching world.
Queening it with my abundant harem of eight Gemini Kings.
Already proven to be fertile as fuck.
“There’s gotta be another explanation for this shit,” I mutter into my mug of hot mulled cider. “This time, it isn’t me.”
Warily I eye the familiar signs of impending orgy from my place of honor before the glittering white monstrosity of the two-story Yule tree. Neo, with his infallible political instincts, positioned me here first thing, where I can be easily seen and approached by the masses.
That was before Neo—the senator’s son—got vacuumed into giving an extended tour of the lodge to an octogenarian cohort of Icarus Academy alumni who graduated in the 1950s (or earlier), powered by a fleet of motorized scooters. Plus a few canes and walking sticks for the sprightly ones.
Hopefully, the seniors are far enough away from the Great Hall and all these pheromones not to get swept up in the orgy and break a hip.
Me?
Oh, I’m right in the thick of it. Breathing in a melange of unfamiliar mating scents while the overheated air pulses with sex like a beating heart.
I only agreed to this obnoxiously prominent Yule tree photo opp because, like, the tree has my back.
I mean, at least no one’s gonna sneak up behind me.
I know, I know.
I’m the guest of honor and no one’s tried killing me (that we know of) in months. Not since we were all married and crowned, like, finally .
But old habits die hard.
Anyway.
Logically speaking, I know I’m physically safe in this herd of tipsy, famous, and semi-famous respectable Mercury family friends.
Especially once they’re all, you know, fucking.
Theoretically, I’m also safe from the elite smattering of Hollywood A List paparazzi from WNN—the Witching News Network—who are covering this annual celebrity gala for all the working class hoi polloi of the witching world who couldn’t score an invite.
I just hope the paps aren’t shooting the two chicks feverishly making out in the shadowy inglenook near the Game Room. Pretty sure those girls didn’t consent to making a porn flick for the masses.
Or the throuple (two guys and a girl, hands everywhere) getting hot and heavy under the mistletoe hanging over the open double doors of the sporty Mercury game room.
Or that whole knot of people, Jesus, just feeling each other up with total disregard for the WNN news cams on the dance floor under the Victorian conservatory’s tall arched windows.
All the while, the ragtime band plays merrily on.
“I mean, fuck, I’m not even in heat.” This time, I speak loud enough to be heard over the rollicking piano and the raucous din of holiday voices.
I’m talking to Ash, who’s appointed himself my bodyguard for the night.
Even though I told him I don’t need one.
My Light Fae Prince looms protectively at my side, his big broad-shouldered frame dressed to slay in a white tux and silver bow tie that sets off his spiky pewter hair and quicksilver eyes to perfection.
“Can’t be in heat while you’re pregnant, can ya?” Ash says reasonably, eyes crinkling as he grins down at my indignant face.
“No, but the paps are gonna blame me for it anyway.”
When Ash hikes a quizzical brow, I wave my cider mug toward the writhing mass of entwined limbs and groping hands on the dance floor. “For the fucking orgy , Ash, that’s about to go down in the middle of Senator Mercury’s Christmas party. They’re gonna say it’s my fault, like the last one.”
“Ah.” Ash’s thoughtful gaze sweeps the sea of blinding white-clad bodies swirling slowly past, under thick oak rafters blazoned with garlands and ivy and walls hung with wreaths and ribbon.
Everyone’s wearing white because it’s a White Christmas party, with a Roaring ’20s theme. Think fringed flapper dresses, feather boas, slim-cut gangster suits, fedora hats.
I mean, until they all get nakey.
“Huh.” Ash dips his square jaw in a slow nod. “I ain’t attended a lotta witching world shindigs. Kinda hard to do that shit from the other side of the Avalon portal. Figured maybe all this touchy-feely was normal for witches.”
I give an unqueenlike snort. “It’s not. Believe me. Half this crowd are elected politicos in the Arcane Senate, like our host. That crew’s usually buttoned up pretty tight.”
I’ve barely said the words when a giggling couple staggers past. Champagne sloshes from a careless glass to spatter the sparkly green toes of the hand-painted combat boots Neo made me for Christmas.
The chick who’s responsible for the spillage is recognizably one of the Arcane Senate’s elected whips.
And the guy wrapped around her, with his hand up the skirt of her flapper dress, is not her famous celebrity lawyer partner.
“Like I said,” I finish on a sigh, shaking champagne off my boot. “It’s an orgy starting, Ash. In fifteen minutes, give or take, this whole crowd’s gonna be fucking. For some reason, this joint’s sexed up as hell. And I’m gonna be blamed for it on the morning news.”
It’s definitely true that the ambience in Theo Mercury’s remote Rocky Mountain lodge is throbbing with sex.
Between the heat of the blazing fire and the fug of pheromones and mating scent swirling through the stuffy air, under the balsamy scent of evergreen and the floral note of high-end perfume, I’m already sweating.
Eyeing the famous talk show host and celebrity shutterbugs seeded through the crowd, I wrap a protective arm around my baby bump, embellished by the sparkly silver sheath of my flapper dress. My bare wrist glitters with the chunky Tiffany emerald bracelet Vasili got me for Christmas.
Yeah, my whole Secret Santa plan was enthusiastically embraced by all the guys—to a point. We’ve all done a lot more buying and gift-exchanging than being one person’s Secret Santa could account for.
Me? I gave gifts to all my guys today.
And all my guys gave gifts—like my new sparkly—to each other and me.
Picking up on the whole orgy vibe, Ash wraps his arm around my waist. He tucks my pregnant self protectively against his powerful muscled bulk.
I relax right into him, because Ash has that effect.
He bends to rumble in my ear. “You wanna vamoose and blow this popsicle stand, princess, you just say the word. We can take our own private party to our guest digs upstairs. Just you, me, and the guys.”
I wind my arm around his broad back and slide a hand down his hip. “Hmmm. Gotta admit, that’s tempting—”
“And here she is! The witch of the hour. The woman we’re all here to see.” Senator Mercury’s charm school polish makes interruption an art form.
Even when the charismatic senator, with his pompadour hair and megawatt smile, is invading my personal space.
Squiring one of the guests I least want to be invaded by.
“Happy holidays, Your Majesties.” Crisp and impeccable in a vintage tux the color of bleached bone, Nikolai Romanov bends his slender frame in a courtly bow that encompasses both me and the Seelie Prince at my side.
At least Nikolai’s smart enough not to reach for my hand.
“Ho ho ho. Nice to see you, Nikolai.” Not. Still, I manage a polite smile. He may be Vasili’s father, biologically speaking. But none of us call him Dad.
“Admittedly,” Nikolai murmurs, sharp eyes darting over my frame, “I’m relieved to see you looking so well after your… flight delay.”
Ash snorts softly under his breath.
To keep anyone from worrying, Theo Mercury apparently told the masses our late arrival this afternoon was due to a storm delay. You know, rather than being kidnapped and swept into an all-night sex bender by the Mercury clan’s rogue wish-granting Christmas cottage.
Still, Nikolai Romanov isn’t head of the AIB—the Arcane Investigative Bureau—for nothing. Under the snaky sibilants and subterranean vowels of his Russian accent, his tone makes the subtext perfectly clear.
A professional liar like Nikolai is totally undeceived by Senator Mercury’s little white lie about the weather.
“I know. Good thing the storm cleared up in time for us to make it, huh?” I give the master spy, now (weirdly) one of my fathers-in-law, a pointed wink. “Said hi to your son yet?”
“Not just yet, I’m afraid.” Nikolai’s espresso-dark stare swerves unerringly from my face to the exact place near the roaring fire where Vasili is currently standing, glued at the hip, with Zephyr.
Those two of my warlocks have been pretty much inseparable all day.
In, seriously, the cutest way.
Even now, Zephyr has a possessive arm looped around V’s narrow waist as the two inspect a tray of passing canapés.
At least, V is pretending to inspect them, all the while projecting an air of supreme indifference to his formerly estranged father’s disruptive presence.
I can tell from the sudden sharpening in our mating bond that Vasili is one hundred percent aware of exactly where his asshole father is currently standing and what he’s saying.
My snake is eavesdropping. Through our mating bond.
And, needless to say, I’m letting him.
“—Throne of the First King.” Theo Mercury’s cheerful voice tugs at my attention.
Reluctantly I shift my gaze from the incredibly sweet spectacle of Zephyr finger-feeding a tidy morsel of fois gras toast to V (who’s a finicky eater but deigns to accept this offering from his new lover’s fingers).
I’m startled to find both my fathers-in-law—the senator and the spymaster—now looking expectantly at me.