And fate.
And Gemini.
31
GEMINI
The meeting started five minutes ago, but I don’t rush Veil as we walk through the high-arched corridor of Mount Pravitia. There’s a raging thunderstorm outside, the rain thrashing against the stained-glass windows, cloaking us in heavy shadows even though it’s mid-afternoon.
I can feel Veil’s heart pound in her chest as if it were my own. Her energy is wild and unsettled. I relish it. Would bathe in it. I know the reason for her apprehension is partly about meeting the rest of the heirs, but her energy has shifted since her little performance at Animus last night.
And I’m not talking about her contortionist routine. I knew her time had finally come the second I saw her storm through the backstage corridor, thirsty for blood.
Oh, what a sight she was.
Before reaching the boardroom, I turn to Veil and grab her gently by the shoulders. She lifts her chin to meet my gaze. Her brown eyes shimmer as she watches me. She’s breathtaking. Especially in the yellow corset I chose for her.
We both know she’s not my prisoner anymore, but she still let me dress her this morning. It makes me want to lock her up all over again and never leave the house.
“Who are you?” I ask her seriously.
Her eyes bounce from side to side, as if studying me, before she answers softly, “Veil Vulturine.”
I grin proudly and nod before pulling her into a short but passionate kiss. “It’s showtime,” I declare with a mischievous wink.
With Veil’s hand in mine, we walk in. The boardroom is hushed. It’s the kind of silence that means something, the air charged with every single atom of the words not yet spoken. Five sets of eyes stare back at us, and the entire affair makes me want to burst into a wild, senseless laugh.
Mercy sits at the head of the long quartz table, next to Wolfgang, her hands clasped tightly on the table. She’s dressed in her usual all black, her plunging neckline revealing a small chained necklace that I’ve never seen before. A quick look at Wolfgang, and I find a similar necklace tucked under the collar of his suit jacket.
Belladonna sits to their right. She narrows her eyes when she sees me, her loose curls a shock of red against the cream of her pantsuit. I don’t linger long on her accusatory glare, smiling at Constantine and Aleksandr, who have chosen seats on the other side of the table.
“You know better than to bring one of your zealots to a meeting, Gemini,” Mercy snaps.
“Who, Veil?” I ask innocently as I lift her hand to my lips. My skin is buzzing with anticipation. I flash her a bright smile and tsk teasingly. “That’s no way to address the seventh heir of Pravitia, love.”
The following silence is as thick and cold as a block of ice. There’s not a sound, except for Constantine snickering into her pink lace gloves and Aleksandr quietly shushing her.
“What did you just say?” Wolfgang says with a threatening curl of his lip.
I sigh, as if bored when I’m anything but. “Isaid, Veil Vulturine is not one of my zealots.”
I pull out a chair and gesture for my doll to sit. She does as I said, her movements slightly unsure, but nonetheless unshaken.
“She is the servant of the god of thievery.”
I take my seat beside Veil just as Wolfgang tries to stand up, but fumbles with his chair and nearly falls down. He tries to ignore his misstep by kicking the leg of the chair and leaning his palms menacingly on the table. I’m barely concealing my chuckle when he glares and points a finger at me.
“God ofwhat?”
Mercy places a hand on Wolfgang’s arm, and his head immediately tilts downward to look at her. Her face is stony and impassive as they share a quick, wordless conversation, and Wolfgang eventually sits back down, peeved. He drags a palm over his beard before crossing his arms.
Under the table, Veil’s leg is bouncing up and down, but her expression is cool and collected. I place my hand over her thigh and squeeze. She stops.
Mercy doesn’t speak. She appears to be trying to intimidate me with silence, as if I were bothered by any of this. She should know better; this is what I live for.
I can feel my god snickering alongside me.
She continues to throw metaphorical daggers at me, and by the look of her severe brow, I’m sure she’s envisioning lodging her real dagger into my neck. Wolfgang is sporting a similar expression, now wringing his hands together compulsively as he stares.
