Gemini

Gemini Kerry Williams Skye High Publishing Copyright © 2023 by Kerry Williams All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover Design: Moonshot Covers Interior Design: SSB Covers and Design Editor: Swish Design and Editing Publisher: Skye High Publishing For Ivy, my darling daughter. My own Gemini. May you always march to the beat of your own drum, the way you do now. And teaching me about a love unconditional. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 About the Author Chapter One Connie Never, ever will I get tired of seeing his body. Peter’s tall form stands at the large open window, his back lean and strong, observing. He’s always watching the placid waters of the Ganges. I can see the vast rivers from where I lie in our bed, a thin sheet covering me. Right now, the waters look black and unforgiving, and there is a rare night Peter doesn’t dream of them. Even more so now that we are here. So much has changed, and yet, nothing has changed at all. Peter gives no thought to who might be able to see him below. I sometimes feel grateful that being around him has made me so much more comfortable in my own skin. Peter’s nightly vigil of the waters has stretched on for months with no signs of a single witch, let alone a coven. Although stories are plentiful, who knows what is real and what is not? This city is one of the most ancient in the world, and Peter is convinced we are in the right place. But the water has become something of an obsession for him, never far from his thoughts, always longing to be in it. Sometimes I think I should push myself to be more concerned, to think more about the water holding Peter’s fixation. How Anna watches him like a hawk when he enters it. I try not to think too much about the great burning ghat not so far away from where Peter wades in and the hundreds of bodies that are burned there every day. He tells me the water is alive, that it’s sacred, and that he can feel the souls wash through him. Best not to think about that, Connie. So, as the twelve months we planned for our trip turns into fifteen, we have all spent our birthdays and one Christmas on the riverbanks of the Ganges in the holy city of Varanasi. Our beautiful home now, where there are no signs of us leaving. Truth be told, none of us have any interest in leaving. We have set up a firm residence in the Sunshine Hostel. The thin net of a curtain billows, sending in a fresh, cooling breeze from the night. At last Peter fixes his eyes back on me. Same confident Peter, watching me as I pull the sheets up to expose my legs, silently inviting him back to bed. His lips curl a bit as he walks to me, stalking me like a predator. Coming to rest his knee on the bottom of the bed, he grabs my ankle and pulls me toward him. I give a small shriek at the surprise of the movement. Peter’s dark eyes dance in the candlelight of our room. “Say it,” he commands as he towers over me, his voice low, like velvet. “You are a god,” I whisper. He closes his eyes against my words, letting out a caressing sigh as he runs his hand up my leg, sending a wave of electricity that ripples across my body. My back arches as he crawls onto the bed. “I worship you,” I murmur. Biting his lip, he pushes the sheet up, exposing me until his face is at my tummy, where he places a whisper of a kiss. “You are my religion, Connie,” he says against my skin, the goose bumps firing down my legs. “You are my god. I worship you,” he repeats back to me before his kisses travel downward. This boy is my undoing, again and again. Different Peter. Worship is his thing of late. Worshiping him, worshiping me. It’s easy to get carried away in this city of worship, and while I’m all in to kneel at the altar of Peter, it is something new. Anna told me Peter once said to her that he didn’t know how to be just part of who he is, so when he learned he was a god, how does he cope with that being all of him? It has occurred to me Peter handled everything that happened with his father quite well, but Peter “after the crash” was different. For the most part, because he felt like he had failed, even with me. The tips of his fingers often trace the small scar that now travels across my collarbone. He’d passed out before he could put me back together in full. The scar serves as a constant reminder that even he has limitations, a reminder of all of our loss. In reality, he saved my life, and Anna’s, that day, but he can’t forgive himself for being unable to save Brady. Peter is the only one who walked away without a scratch. My memory is still incredibly hazy, only bits and pieces coming back to me. I remember the sun shining so bright and the world was the wrong way up, with strangers all around the car. Anna had already been removed from the car