Chapter One Zara

The whole world is watching.

And, no, I'm not exaggerating.

The whole world is specifically watching me , the celebrity bad girl—basically the royal wild child of the witching world—celebrate my twenty-first birthday at a star-studded gala on the royal yacht.

In the fiery glow of a Mediterranean sunset, helicopters are already circling the sleek white wedge of the Aquarius Queen, where she's anchored in the deepwater harbor off Icarus Island, like great whites circling a shark cage.

As we chug across the harbor toward the yacht in our borrowed boat from Racetrack's dive shop, I can already feel those cameras trained on me from all angles. To me, they're predators closing in for the kill.

The choppers circling and chuttering overhead.

The scrum of speedboats churning up the harbor.

And especially the mob of star-powered glitterati already aboard the Aquarius for the party. Betcha that school of piranhas already smells blood in the water.

Mine.

"Hey Zara! Gemini queen!" A pair of paparazzi on a jet ski zip past. "Show us your tits!"

Fuck.

In the balmy warmth of the June breeze flowing over my skin, my stomach churns worse than the sea in that jet ski's wake. My pulse hammers harder than the electric beat of the globally famous pop diva on that party boat who's performing exclusively for me tonight .

Scandal or no scandal, we're live in five on WNN.

The Witching News Network.

Racetrack pilots the dive boat through the choppy turquoise surf with her usual take-no-prisoners badassery. She's not any happier than I am about this whole shitshow or the media circus this latest invasion of my privacy's unleashed. So she swears like a pirate whenever the kamikaze choppers dive-bomb our deck, or the paparazzi speedboats cut it too close buzzing past. She scowls into the blinding blaze of flashbulbs and ignores the news hounds' vulgar shouts.

Let's just say my housemate at the helm isn't Miss Congeniality.

Me?

Teeth gritted, I smile tightly and wave like they all expect. The wind lifts my heavy mane of teal curls, freshly colored for my big day, and sends it swirling around my bare shoulders.

Or maybe that's my power rising.

I don't trust those cameras.

Especially not now.

Twitchy with nerves, I recross my legs in my sequined skirt, grip my silver clutch, and wish like hell this designer gown I'm wearing offered a concealed carry for my stiletto.

Too bad it doesn't. Which is, like, a design flaw.

This party frock is so skimpy I'm barely wearing a goddamn thong—

"Now stop fidgeting, darling, do, " Vasili purrs from the seat beside me, where he's lounging like a pasha in his own designer threads. "You don't want to spoil my masterpiece. Which is you . You've already been positively wicked for spurning the royal purple."

"Sorry to violate the dress code, Goblin King. Maybe you should throw me in detention, huh?" Despite my steadily worsening jitters, I sneak a peek at my outrageous alpha wearing that flamboyant getup.

This time, my smile's a real one.

Vasili Romanov.

He's more than one of my seven mates. More than the holy terror of the Icarus Academy. He's the Scorpio scion of the whole witching world. Which means he's got connections in the fashion world from New York to Milan. He basically dresses both of us for these fancy-shmancy parties.

"Besides," I murmur, all low and sultry, because just the sight of him makes my tummy flutter, "I'm pretty sure the real center of attention on that yacht tonight's gonna be you, bad boy. Same as always."

My appreciation triggers one of his sexy growls. "Hmmm. Just the way I like it."

No doubt about it. He's rocking that skinny violet tux, flown in and expertly tailored to fit his tall slim frame, like nobody's business. His dangerous eyes hide behind the violet frames of his fashionable rock-star spectacles, his cruel mouth glitters with a slick of pale lip gloss, and the ocean breeze flirts with his gilded mop of punk-rock hair.

Yowsa.

I'm literally shacking up with the warlock equivalent of David Bowie.

Among others.

And, despite those stalkerazzi pics of me and my guys popping up left and right in The Witching Inquisitor , this bad boy's never minded being filmed.

Unlike me.

Under my admiring eyes, Vasili gives a sultry smirk for the news cams and preens on the dive boat bench like the sexy-pretty diva he is.

"Hey, you're the birthday girl." On my other side, Neo's big warm hand lands on my naked knee and gives a gentle squeeze. "They're all here for you tonight, babe."

Neo Mercury's my fated mate.

More than any of my warlocks, he always knows what I'm feeling.

Now I meet his earnest green eyes, shining down at me through the stylish frames of his bookworm spectacles, with his soft purple curls all wind-tossed around his cleancut face. His broad shoulders and chest fill his crisp white tux to perfection, and his lavender bow tie complements his hair.

For his sake, to keep him from worrying, I dredge up another smile. I swear, he's too good for me. And not just because he's First Boy on the Dean's List. With him, I'm mated to the Clark Kent of the witching world.

That's how honest and sweet and good he is.

"Sorry, baby." I cover his hand with mine. "That latest batch of Inquisitor pics has me all on edge. I'm not used to living my life in the spotlight like you are. You're a senator's son. I'm a fucking cat burglar—"

"A reformed cat burglar," Lucius murmurs.

My wolf shifter headmaster's sitting quietly across the way, so close that our knees are brushing. With his vintage tux, imperial purple ascot, and Hungarian accent, Lucius Aries is pure Old World aristocrat. His keen eyes are hidden behind John Lennon sunglasses, Renaissance curls sleeked in a tidy knot away from his wary face.

Did I mention I'm also mated to the young and dapper Gary Oldman version of Bram Stoker's Dracula ?

Especially when his fangs drop.

Racetrack swerves hard to avoid a daredevil speedboat that roars past out of nowhere. Sweet Jesus. We just barely escaped a head-on collision that makes Neo gasp and Dez yelp.

"I swear to fuck, Z." Racetrack scowls after the speeding moron. "These media sharks are gonna get you killed."

"We'll have to become accustomed to attracting attention. Both with and without our consent." Now Lucius is all growly, thanks to that barely averted threat, but he makes the effort and retracts his fangs. He's an intensely private guy, and I know he's no happier than I am about having his naked ass plastered across that scandal sheet, all wolfed out and madly fucking five of his own students (including me).

Thanks to our poly relationship—now openly exposed to the whole witching world—he's barely hanging onto his job. Which is one he treasures.

He definitely doesn't need The Inquisitor rubbing the Dean's nose in it.

"That's bullshit. I'm not gonna have your privacy violated like that." I lean forward to grip his hands, all hard and callused from running wild on all fours when he shifts, and gaze fiercely into his eyes. "Not on my account."

"We accepted that kind of attention, all of us, when we mated you." His fingers tighten around mine with a reassuring squeeze. "The Gemini queen."

"Queen in waiting." I glare as a chopper roars past like a gunship, strafing us with an arsenal of telephoto lenses that bristle through the open doors. "And we're not even officially mated yet. How much worse is this gonna be for you once we are?"

"We've all made our choice, Zara." Lucius gives my hands a firm squeeze to ground me. "My dear, we've chosen you. We've chosen us . We've chosen all of us."

The worst of the tension eases its viselike grip between my shoulders. He always knows what to say to make me feel better.

Out of all my mates, Lucius is the one who makes me feel safe.

I release him and settle back in my seat with a sigh. "Anyway, the Aquarius queen who's throwing my birthday coronation bash doesn't seem much like she wants to step down. We gotta share that throne—somehow—till she does. Which is another reason I'm really not looking forward to this shindig. Like, at all."

I don't have to say it.

But there's a whole fucking list of reasons I'm not looking forward to tonight.

Reasons related to my conflicted and begrudging feelings about surrendering the last of my hard-won freedom and permanently taking on this whole ball-and-chain queen gig.

I have mating bonds with all the guys in my harem.

Which means, when I'm dreading something the way I'm dreading tonight, they can smell it.

Me refusing to wear the royal purple to my own coronation?

That's just the tip of the iceberg.

"Zara's just sulking because she hasn't had her birthday spanking. Yet ." Vasili smirks at me over his rock-star spectacles. " That's a gift from Lucius and me you'll have to wait for, little queen. But not for long."

Well, shit. That gets me squirming in my seat. My bare thighs rub together under my slitted skirt in a way I definitely notice. And the way Lucius leans forward and growls, deep in his chest, sets my heart skipping and my pulse skyrocketing for a whole new reason.

A little spanky-panky for me from my warlocks?

Oh, hell to the yeah. Sign me up, baby.

Just what I need to take the edge off. At least we can finish off this whole shitty day on a high note.

Lucius smells my mating scent perfuming the briny ocean air, which makes his nostrils flare. Behind his dark specs, his eyes pulse red.

That's his wolf rising.

Dayum.

Now my thong's getting damp .

"Not every girl gets a bloody crown for her birthday, does she, love?" That's Ronin Pendragon, standing in the prow with one booted foot braced on the gunwale, which means he's not smelling me. (But he's a wicked telepath, so he's definitely feeling me.) His long sleek hair streams behind him in the wind in a black silk banner of hotness. Under his tuxedo jacket and plum silk button-down, his painted-on leather pants cup his traffic-stopping ass in a way we all appreciate.

Despite our collective unease.

Shit. There's just no denying it. This morning's paper threw us all off balance.

Like, we really didn't need the whole witching world knowing my nipples are pierced.

"Yeah, no, not feeling the love." I scowl at a passing speedboat and barely resist the urge to flip those intrusive cameras the bird. "Even if this whole coronation—assuming Messalina does plan to crown me tonight, since we're all kinda guessing—is literally the only reason I'm even here."

"Along with the chance to party with the glitterati, yeah?" Dez pipes up from where she's tucked against Racetrack at the helm. The sparkles from Dez's orchid party dress glimmer against her sorrel skin.

Those two girls—Dez and RT—look comfy and settled together in a way I refuse to let myself envy. I mean, I'm not jealous of them together or anything (even though I'm bi). I'm just acknowledging the simplicity of having one mate who's totally settled in the relationship. Instead of the uneasy seven (half of whom distrust and actively hate each other) that I'm somehow rocking.

Including my other shifter mate who's late to this party—assuming he deigns to show up at all—because glitterati parties really aren't Maxim's scene.

Not to mention my two skittish Fae, who've been totally MIA and incommunicado for weeks.

Fuck.

The dive boat bumps gently against the stern of the yacht. Which gets me out of my head and back in the game.

Even if there's no one down here to greet us except a surly-looking deckhand who isn't much for conversation. Unsmiling, he grabs the rope Ronin tosses him and ties us up alongside .

"Huh. Not much of a welcome party." Racetrack gives the setup a sharp look as she cuts the power and pockets the key. "Not that you mind, I guess, if that bitch Messalina's not waiting right here for you with that crown on a goddamn cushion."

With her short blond hair and Ellen DeGeneres power suit, RT's got her don't-fuck-with-me face on. Suddenly I really appreciate having her with me tonight.

Strength in numbers, you feel me?

"I don't mind at all, believe me," I mutter. "Whatever Messalina's got planned, the sooner we get this shitshow behind us and our asses back to the Academy, the better I'll like it."

Neo helps me to my feet in my stilettos and gives me an anxious look. He's kinda hovering, they all are, because they feel what I'm feeling. "Is that your foresight acting up, babe?"

"It's not witchcraft. It's performance anxiety." Vasili sneers at a passing chopper like he's going to light it on fire (even though that's Ronin's power and not V's). The gust from the thing's noisy passing blows my hair around my head. "For fuck's sake. Better put your game face on, little queen, do . Or these Aquarius piranhas will eat you alive."

"Thanks for that, Goblin King." I give his disdainful pout the stink eye, but I do pull my shit together. "And don't be a dick tonight. I mean it."

He hums, but doesn't bother to answer.

Great.

If he's feeling pissy, he's gonna be a problem.

Then we're all scrambling out on the afterdeck, with me cursing these strappy shoes Vasili's talked me into, but grateful as fuck for the front slit I insisted on when he picked out my party frock. Which means my skirt's split all the way up to mid-thigh.

I need to know I can run or fight if I have to.

Even if I'm not armed.

I mean, the conventional way.

Ronin leaps out ahead of me, graceful as a panther on the rocking deck, then gives me a nice firm hand onto that treacherous sleek-ass yacht and slips an arm around my waist in that possessive way that always heats my hoochie. He's the Leo scion—a fire sign—so he literally runs hot anyway.

And it definitely doesn't hurt, having Ronin's unstoppable hotness squiring me up the stairs toward that well-dressed pack of cackling hyenas on the poop deck.

Or having Vasili and Lucius, two of my badass alphas, both looming at my back like sexy bodyguards.

Hopefully Maxim, who's kind of a loner but makes a ferociously intimidating third alpha, will turn up on his own.

"Stay tight and stick close, okay?" I call back to Neo and the girls, pitching my voice to carry over the throbbing bass from the live band and the pop icon's syrupy croon. "Just till we know what's what."

No worries, babe, Neo says, sweet and patient, through our mating bond. I'm not going anywhere. You're permanently stuck with me.

Which is about the nine hundredth reason why I love that guy.

His loyalty.

Unshakable.

I pull in a steadying breath and try to look relaxed and in control, like the next goddamn queen of the witching world, even if that's not how I feel. Those salacious pics of all six of us, snapped from some stalky angle outside my own bedroom window, have definitely knocked me off my stride.

But fuck if I'm gonna show it.

Any of it.

The party's already in full swing, with the oyster bar and the champagne fountain seeing plenty of action on the poop deck, the dance floor on the main deck rocking under laser lights and a mirrored ball, and the megastar and her band set up on the quarterdeck under a massive LED screen screaming Happy Birthday, Zara Gemini!! that lights up the twilight like a second sun.

Every deck on this superyacht is packed with the glitterati of the witching world, famous faces from all twelve clans, from the Senate to the WNN newsroom. All dressed to the nines in Tom Ford tuxes and Vera Wang gowns, mingling over champagne and canapés, sipping poison and swapping secrets, swaying to the tunes under swoopy strings of festive lights that glow against the violet sky.

No one makes any kind of announcement or fuss of any kind over our arrival. Which is kinda weird, but I'm definitely not complaining.

Still, I'm still the guest of honor (I mean, allegedly?) and we're kinda hard to miss .

Heads are already turning all over this deck, hands rising to cover the sibilant hiss of whispers, venomous eyes skittering over all of us like spiders. Over the floral notes of high-end fragrance and the dry fizz of bubbly, the dark spice of Mogadon pheromones—Vasili's, mine, the biochemical hit of sex and aggression from half the crowd on this party boat—is making my head spin.

Cheese on toast.

Why do I feel like this shiver of sharks is closing in for the kill?

These days, I'm a famous face myself. (Thanks for that, WNN). My spangly gown with its icy blue discs catches the sunset and throws flashes of light in all directions, my eyes glow purple with psi fire when I'm nervous (like now), and I'm definitely the only guest on board with a wild mane of teal hair that falls to my ass.

Not to mention Ronin towering at my side, with his powerful frame and leather pants and waist-length black mane, golden eyes flaming in his feral face while all those eyes devour him.

Thanks to those stalker pics, everyone on board knows he's packing a pierced dick behind his zipper.

Hell, right now, his Prince Albert is probably the most famous piercing in the witching world.

"Fuck, it's already famous. Half this lot have already seen it up close, love, believe me," Ronin says easily, because of course he's following my thoughts. Deftly he snares me a glass of bubbly from a passing tray. "I fucked half the bloody aristocracy before you came along, didn't I?"

Of course he has.

Till I came along, Ronin was just living his best bisexual manwhore life. He doesn't seem to miss it, but I love the way he owns that shit.

Vasili snickers as he slithers up alongside us. His cool fingers rescue the silver clutch I'm gripping too tightly (which looks better on him anyway). His free hand laces through mine.

That's my Goblin King staking his own casual claim.

On me.

"Yeah, well Sir One and Done is officially off the market. So they all better get used to that." I glare at a trio of bitches by the oyster bar, who aren't even trying to hide the way they're eye-fucking Ronin.

"Too right, he is. I'm taken." Ronin slips his champagne glass into my free hand. Then he smolders at V and nuzzles my ear with his hot lips in a way that makes me shiver with sudden need.

Vasili watches the two of us connect and hums with appreciation.

Finally , those three bitches look away. Good. I'm a goddamn alpha myself and they better show me—and my mates—some fucking respect.

Ronin eases away before we can take our PDA to the next level so he can collect glasses of bubbly for Neo and the girls. Which is fine. I'm definitely not planning another of our infamous public orgies in this joint.

I sip the crisp dry fizz of my Dom Perignon and play it all casual for the news cams.

But still.

It's weird. I wasn't expecting party favors or a table piled with presents. I don't know these people. And what little I do know, I don't like.

But no one comes to greet us. No one even throws me a token Happy Birthday .

Yet heads are turning our way all over this goddamn boat.

There's a world-famous rock star performing live to the starboard side. A spectacular Mediterranean sunset blazing away to port. Two good-looking girls with runway-quality bodies in barely-there party frocks making out on the dance floor.

And this whole joint's fixated on us ?

The snap and pop of a nearby camera makes me flinch.

Which I fucking hate.

"Better get used to it, babe." That's Neo, bringing me a little cocktail plate piled high with fancy nibbles. We cluster around a tall standing table and try to ignore the attention. "Once you ascend, this is gonna be your court."

"Yeah, kinda, I guess." I nibble on a chocolate-covered strawberry, the sweet fruit and milk chocolate melting on my tongue, and study the crowd with a wary eye.

I don't see Messalina, who's supposed to be our hostess with the mostest. And the current queen of the witching world should not be hard to spot.

Plus there are other familiar faces I'm looking for and not seeing.

"Where's Daddy Dearest, I wonder?" Vasili, who prefers vodka to champagne, swirls an olive around his otherwise untouched martini glass and looks dangerous. "Mick Gemini is hardly known for being bashful. He should be front and center to see his little darling crowned queen. "

"Guess he stood me up." I give an eloquent snort. "Or let me down. Again. Go figure."

Sure, my dad's a piece-of-shit casino czar who spent years after I ran away posting a bounty on my rebel ass. Last intel I heard, he was offering a cool two mill to whoever brought him my head in a bag.

But allegedly we're past all that, with me now tapped to be the next queen.

So, yeah, I figured my asshole dad would be here.

"Back at the Double Gemini in Vegas, counting his millions?" Racetrack's abandoned her bubbly for a longneck, she's not into frou-frou drinks, but none of us are drinking much. "My moms aren't here either, and I figured they would be. The Prynnes are big shots in the witching world."

"Speaking of big shots." Dez scans the scene with her pretty brow puckered. "Where's Neo's old man? Senator Mercury. Figured he'd be front and center for the beanfest, yeah?"

"He was definitely supposed to be." That's Neo, who's been trying to reach his dad on our finicky landline for days. We don't have functioning internet behind the magical wards that conceal the Icarus Academy from the mortal world. This is one of the times that sucks. "For both political and personal reasons, this isn't an event my dad would ever miss."

"For that matter, I was also very much expecting the Dean." Lucius isn't even pretending to drink. My headmaster's prowling around our table like a hunting wolf, his glasses tucked away now that darkness is falling. His sherry-colored eyes pulse with a reddish tinge. "Quite possibly, of course, her failing health has kept her away. But my own grandsire, as head of the Aries clan, should also be in attendance. In fact, he wrote me a letter to expect him."

My nerves tingle and plink with alarm like a plucked harp. Sharply I glance around our table at the circle of worried faces.

"That's, what, six no-shows? And all of them our allies—I mean, except my dad." I watch Lucius' nostrils flare as he paces and scents. Ronin's eyes glow golden with psi fire against his tawny skin. Resting on the table, Vasili's deadly casting hand twitches.

If V closes that telekinetic fist of his and means it, he'll crush half the people on this boat .

"Plus our so-called hostess," I finish. "The queen bee, as in bitch, is totally MIA."

Across the table, RT's flinty gray gaze locks with mine. She sucks in a breath and thunks her longneck down. "Yeah, something's fucked. You think we should motor, Z?"

Fuck. That's exactly what I'm thinking.

Neo, the senator's son, the most political of all my mates, looks downright alarmed. "Wait a minute, we can't just take off. This is Zara's big night. It's her coronation—I mean, maybe. But it's definitely her birthday. She's the guest of honor. There's like a million cameras filming us live right now—"

"Yeah, and they're filming for a reason. But it might not be the reason we think." I abandon my champagne, grab my clutch, and spin toward the stairs. "Come on, guys. We're outtie."

This time, no one argues, not even Neo.

Racetrack's already powering down the stairs for the afterdeck and our ride, towing a worried-looking Dez along with her.

My warlocks close ranks around me, all protective. Ronin on one side, Neo on the other, V and Lucius dropping back to guard my six.

But I haven't taken more than two steps away from the table before someone else slips into my escape path.

Actually, make that two someones.

My eyes are lowered, sweeping the deck for spills or other obstacles that could trip me up in my mile-high stilettos. Now my gaze slides up a pair of long legs sheathed in a sparkly evening gown in a purple so deep it's nearly black, poured over the tall slim lines of a supermodel physique, framed in a sleek curtain of merlot hair.

I know that hair.

And I definitely know that body.

I jerk to a halt like I've just been knifed.

My stunned gaze drills into a pair of wide violet eyes, set in a famously stunning face. Those are eyes I thought I'd never look into again, except from the cover of Vogue or Vanity Fair , where they're regularly featured.

I wonder if I could possibly be hallucinating. Like maybe those three sips of champagne I've taken have somehow gone straight to my head.

Then those lush lips, slicked with mauve, part around the purring Italian drama diva voice I remember like it was yesterday .

"Ciao, bella. Surely you're not leaving us already. Not without saying arrivederci ."

Sweet.

Fucking.

Jesus.

I'm not hallucinating.

My mouth is open. I close it so I can swallow, because my throat's gone dry as a goddamn ashtray. Then I pull my shit together, plant a hand on my hip, and give her and her partner in crime—the good-looking guy in a spiffy tux who's hovering submissively at her heels—a cool once-over.

Yep. It's official.

My celebrity-studded twenty-first birthday bash is a goddamn fucking ambush.

I'm standing three feet away from my backstabbing bitch of an ex-BFF.

And my lying sack of shit ex-boyfriend.

"Well, there goes the fucking neighborhood," I drawl. "Cleo Ferrari. And Xiao Long Zheng. You two come all this way just to finish the job you royally fucked up in Singapore and kill me?"