Текст книги "Bewitched"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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“Does it look like I care? That fucking cunt nearly ripped off my leg.”

“Enough,” a third one says.

Memnon’s power must be working because the pain from the curse is dying down, and I’m able to move my eyes.

So I can see one of the witches prowling over, her toenails painted a soft pink color. For some reason, that strikes me as ridiculous, given the situation.

She crouches next to me, her straight black hair brushing my cheek. “When the others get to you, you’re going to wish you hadn’t done shit tonight,” she whispers, looking down on me.

She lifts her hand, and I’m not sure if it’s to slap me or strike me with another spell, but I want to scream because I can’t do anything but lie here, prone.

The witch flashes me a nasty smile. “Payback’s a bit—” A black shadow collides with her, and I hear her scream. It cuts out, replaced by the meaty sound of ripping flesh.

There are more screams and more meaty sounds. Now I’m able to tilt my head just a little. A massive shadow is pinning one of the witches, and it jerks its head, tearing out a section of flesh. The creature pauses to glance over at me, its eyes glinting eerily in the darkness.

I recognize those eyes.

Nero!

I want to cry because he’s here, defending me. He roars, then lunges toward another witch.

I see a flash of cobalt-blue magic whoosh toward him.

In an instant I’m in his mind. Get down!

His body lowers, pressing flush against the ground, and the spell whizzes harmlessly past him.

I’m out of his head in an instant, dragging as much of Memnon’s magic into me as I can, until it’s flushing out the last of the spells that cling to my body.

I thought I was panicked before, but now knowing that my familiar is taking on a group of bloodthirsty witches all on his own—I’m petrified for him.

My fingers and toes twitch, then my hands and wrists, feet and ankles. I want to scream at how painfully slow it’s going.

Before I get full motor function back, I sense one of the witches grabbing the shifter girl behind me.

No!

I fling my magic out without a spell, letting the cords of it find the witch. As soon as they do, my power wraps around the witch’s ankles and yanks her off her feet.

She grunts as she hits the ground hard. Before she can get up, my familiar is on her—

I cringe at the wet sound of him biting into her. I slip into his mind, coaxing my familiar to let the witch go. Reluctantly, he does so.

From his eyes, I peer around us. The witches all appear to be accounted for. Several of them lie on the ground, moaning. Two more are limping away together. Nero’s nostrils flare at the smell of so much blood.

I move back from his mind to my own. I’ve regained enough control of my body to turn on my side and retch, my body wanting to purge the pain and the spells and all the gruesome sights of the evening.

Nero prowls over to me and nudges me onto my back again. I groan as I flop onto my injured shoulder.

My familiar puts a paw on my chest, and he gives me an intense and—I swear to the goddess—irritated look. Normally, I have to guess at Nero’s more complex thoughts, but for some reason, this one is clear: Call on me for help.

I swallow and nod. “Thank you,” I murmur.

It takes another full minute for the immobilizing spell to completely wear off, even with the help of Memnon’s borrowed magic.

Once it does, I hobble over to the shifter girl. She’s no longer screaming, which is good, but she’s not awake, and she’s far too still for my liking. Kneeling at her side, I check her pulse.

It’s there—and it sounds strong and steady.

I think she’s going to be okay.

“Give me strength,” I murmur in Sarmatian, the words forming as I draw on more of Memnon’s power.

His magic flares through my body, lending me his might.

I lug the girl into my arms once more, trying not to think about just how much I’m in Memnon’s debt. I’ve used a lot of his power tonight.

Got to get to shifter territory. I can worry about the sorcerer later. The most important thing is making sure this girl is safe.

I’ve taken maybe five steps when a monstrous roar fills the night air.

Well, fuck. There’s the monster. Now he’s accounted for.

And I think he’s after my ass.

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CHAPTER 28

I hate running. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

That’s all I can think as I trip over roots and half stumble, half sprint through the Everwoods, my wounds so numerous, they’ve become one massive ache, one that Memnon’s power is no longer able to fully dull.

Oh, and there’s a monster somewhere in the forest at my back.

Nero lopes next to me, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

Ahead of me, the barrier comes into view, the magical line shimmering just the slightest. The sight of it gives me a final burst of adrenaline.

From the darkness behind me comes another roar.

I eye the barrier again. I’m going to make it—I am—but even so, there’s nothing to stop the monster from following me across.

Have to deal with the creature first.

I fall to my knees and lay the girl down as quickly as I can. After rising to my feet, I back away from her.

“Nero,” I say, nodding to my familiar, “guard the girl.”

In the forest behind me, twigs are snapping and branches are swaying as the monster barrels toward me.

I barely have time to turn toward it before the creature slams into me.

The two of us go down in a tangle of limbs. I hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of me.

Before I can draw in another breath, two monstrous hands close around my neck.

I gasp, my panic rising.

Can’t breathe!

Above me the creature’s lips draw back, and it hisses, revealing sharpened teeth.

If I could scream, I would. The thing looks human, but everything from its pallor to the odd smoothness of its features is wrong.

I reach for its hands, desperate to pry them from my neck. I startle at the feel of the creature’s skin, which feels like…like…potter’s clay.

Don’t I have a magical aptitude for clay?

The being’s hold tightens, and a gurgled sound comes from my mouth.

Selene, use my power! Memnon bellows inside my head.

Power, right.

I yank on Memnon’s magic, and for the hell of it, I try drawing on the creature’s own essence. To my shock, I feel its magic migrate from its body to my own. After gathering all the accumulated power, I force it down my arms and out my palms, willing the hands beneath mine to loosen.

For a moment, they do, and I drag in a grateful gulp of air.

But then those hands tighten once more, and the creature stares down at me with those lifeless obsidian eyes, its features slack.

A shadow drops from the treetops above us, landing heavily on my attacker. I hear the dull sound of clay breaking, and I swear to the triple goddess that the monster’s back caved in under the impact.

Nero snarls above us. I see a flash of his fangs, and I feel a stray claw of his accidentally tear at my flesh as he mauls the creature between us. I grunt at the wave of pain that comes a moment later.

Damn the gods, Empress, USE MY POWER! IT IS YOURS! Memnon roars.

My pain and panic and those compelling words are enough to call forth another wave of power.

I don’t mean to let my magic make use of my blood; it’s simply that my attention drifts briefly to my newest wound, and the magic follows. Once there, my magic feasts.

My power comes alive like never before. I didn’t know it could feel like this—like a live wire. It’s burgeoning more and more as my blood dissolves.

I gather it in my palms and move my hands to the monster’s chest. Its own hold is still fast around my neck, despite Nero’s attack.

For an instant, I move into Nero’s head.

Move away. Now, I command him.

I shift back into my own head as my panther hops off the creature, then prowls back to the girl.

Black spots obscure my vision, but I wait until my magic has finished devouring my blood. I know that’s forbidden magic; I know that tomorrow I’ll be sorry I used it.

But tonight, I have no remorse.

I stare into those empty eyes, and I speak a single word. “Annihilate.”

My power detonates.

The creature blasts into the air, its body shattering as it’s thrown across the forest. My spell continues, the last of it hitting a tree and cracking it apart.

Then the woods fall silent, so painfully silent.

There is my queen. Memnon’s words seem to echo in the silence, though I know I’m only hearing them in my head.

I take a deep breath of air, then cough, my throat raw. Nero comes over to me, rubbing his head and then his body against my face.

I force myself to my feet, though my body feels incapable of holding me up. I stumble over to where I saw the creature’s remains fall.

When I get to where I think it landed, I whisper “illuminate” into my hand.

A weak orb of light bursts forth, the light from it flickering. I blow it off my palm, watching it float over the ground.

I draw in a breath when I see dozens and dozens of clay shards. I lift one of the larger pieces, one that resembles a finger. The inside of it is hollow. There’s no muscle, no bone, no blood. The thing that almost killed me literally shattered like a broken pot. Still, several feet away, its head and one of its shoulders lie mostly intact.

As I walk up to it, it hisses, snapping its teeth at me.

Yeah, not today, Frankenstein.

I lift my bare foot, then slam it down on its face, grimacing as the sharp, jagged edges of its head cut into my skin.

What’s one more injury at this point?

I draw my foot back and bash it in again. And again.

Somewhere along the way, I begin to scream my rage, and I think I may be crying, and I don’t care. I don’t care because my body feels like this is the last bit of energy I have.

I pulverize the creature’s face until nothing remains.

And then I limp my way back to the girl.

I still don’t know her name.

I want to laugh. We both nearly died three times over, yet I don’t know her name, and she knows even less about me.

Then I do laugh, and I think I’m still crying.

I’m losing it. I know I am.

I bend to pick her up, and it’s not going to happen, my muscles are too tired, my body too spent.

Still, I manage to scrape together enough of Memnon’s power to lend me the needed strength.

I haul the girl into my arms and stumble toward the boundary separating witch from lycanthrope territory. With a final lunge, I cross the line.

I fall to my knees on the other side of it, Nero next to me.

My arms loosen, and the girl slides out of them.

And then I pass out.

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CHAPTER 29

I am cloaked in darkness, my mind wrapped in it like a blanket. It only pulls back slightly when I hear a low warning growl from Nero, who’s curled against my side.

I fight my way back to consciousness, rousing only enough to lift my hand in additional warning to whoever is approaching.

My eyes meet the brown eyes of a wolf. As soon as I see it, I drop my hand.

Not a witch.

In the back of my mind, I note the irony that even bloody and weak, I feel safer right now in the presence of a predator than I do a witch.

“It’s okay, Nero,” I whisper.

My familiar quiets, though he’s tense behind me.

The wolf paces forward, and if it’s interested in eating me, I’m F-U-C-K-E-D because I’m not moving. I don’t think I could even if I tried.

The wolf takes a few steps forward, then soundlessly shifts. In its place stands a naked older man.

He rushes over the last of the distance before kneeling at our side, uncaring that a panther is mere feet from him. I can’t see the man’s expression, but he must smell the blood on me. I’ve lost a lot, I think…

I don’t know what we must look like.

The man leans into the girl’s neck and breathes in her scent. Whatever he smells causes him to whine. Then he leans over and scents me as well, his nose tickling my skin. Nero growls again but doesn’t do anything else. I hear another whine come from the man, this one slightly different.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

I don’t think so, but I don’t bother admitting that.

Instead, I reach out and grope in the darkness for his hand. When I find it, I give it a squeeze.

I swallow, beating back the darkness that keeps clouding my vision.

“They tried…to…bind her,” I whisper. I feel a pressing need to get this story out now, in case more people come for me and the girl. “She was…drugged… Did…my best…to…get her…here.” I keep having to pause to catch my breath. Everything hurts so damn bad. Even pushing out words. And my vision keeps clouding. I think. It’s so dark. I don’t know. Confused.

The girl, I remind myself.

“Please…” I say, squeezing the shifter’s hand, “get her…to safety…before they…come back.”

“Who? Who’s coming back?”

I try to speak again, but I’m so tired. So, so tired.

I think I drift a little, but I rouse again when I hear the shifter howl, the sound of it raising my gooseflesh. I crack my eyes open—when did they close?—and see the girl is in his arms.

“Thank you for protecting Cara,” he says, and oh, he’s talking to me.

I try to sharpen my focus.

“I’m going to send some pack mates over here,” he continues. “We’ll get you healed and taken care of. Just hold tight.” That last part sounds a bit like a plea, and I understand why a second later.

The shifter retreats into the darkness, carrying the girl.

I should feel terrified of being left alone, weak as I am. But Nero is beside me, and I know he’s keeping watch. Between that and my relief that the girl is now back with her pack, I let the darkness take me once more.

It seems like only minutes later when my sleep is interrupted again. I hear the heavy crunch of pine needles as someone approaches.

One of the shifters, I remind myself.

The footsteps halt when they get to me.

“Only fools and warriors pass out under an open sky. Reckless woman, you are a bit of both.”

I jolt when I hear the voice, forcing my eyes open. In the darkness, I can barely make out Memnon’s features, but it’s him.

How did you find me? I want to ask him, but I’m so tired, and I know if I try to speak—if I dare move at all—then my various wounds will start waking up with me.

We are soul mates. I can always find you.

He reaches out and brushes the hair from my face. It’s…nice. I let my eyes drift closed and enjoy the sensation of his fingers on me. Now that I’m vulnerable, I can admit to myself that Memnon’s very presence makes me feel safe.

His hand retreats from my hair, and I hate that his touch is gone. And then I think I’m supposed to hate that I hate that, but fuck, I’m too tired to bother caring at this point.

Hands slide under my body. Even that slight jostling has me moaning as my injuries flare to life.

“It’s all right, little witch. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The moment he lifts me fully into his arms, it feels like I’m being attacked all over again. I cry out as pain lacerates across my body.

Memnon curses under his breath. “Ease the pain from within,” he utters.

His magic seeps into me from that point over my heart. Almost immediately, the pain dissolves. I want to laugh; it feels so good not to hurt. But I’m so tired. Even more so now that I have a true break from the pain.

Memnon begins to walk, and I lean my head into the crook of his arm, nestling into his chest.

“My flawless queen, my exquisite mate,” he murmurs, and for once I really don’t take issue with the terms he’s calling me. “What heart you have.”

I don’t think we’ve traveled very far when Memnon pauses, adjusting his grip so he can use one of his hands to feel where my clothes touch his. I don’t really know what he’s doing, not until he holds his fingers up, rubs them together, then touches them to his tongue.

“Fuck.” He starts moving again, only now he’s charging through the woods. “How badly are you injured?”

I don’t know. I push the answer through our bond because I’m too tired to speak.

He curses again. “I’m going to get you to your room before I heal you, est amage. If we linger out here while I mend your wounds, we will draw too much attention, and I do not trust my rage right now. I will kill anyone who crosses me—friend or foe.”

“You…have…anger problems.”

Memnon’s hold tightens on me. “You are my weakness, Empress,” he confesses, his voice gentling. “You always have been.”

As he carries me back through the Everwoods, his lips skim my forehead, and for some inconceivable reason, I lean into the action, nuzzling closer to him.

He makes a satisfied sound, and I swear I sense some emotion coming from Memnon—an ache that is so sharp, it hurts.

“You are safe,” he murmurs. “Nothing—nothing—will ever get you while you are with me. I swear my life on it, mate.”

I feel the truth in those words, though I don’t understand why he’s being this way when he’s been so clear that we are enemies.

It’s only quiet for a minute before he speaks again.

“How fierce my mate is,” he says. “I saw how you laid waste to your foes.”

Bile rises in my throat at the memory of all the sliced-up witches scattered across the forest. How did the night turn into this?

“Fear not, my queen,” he continues. “Those who survived your wrath will not live long. I will hunt them down myself and make them pay.”

Oh Goddess.

“No,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says. “They marked themselves the moment they attacked you. No one attacks what’s mine and lives.”

I don’t remember passing out, but I wake to the sound of Memnon’s boots striding across the creaking wood floors of my house. I’m still in his arms, still cradled like a baby. And man, after the night I had, I can say with certainty that I much prefer being the one carried than doing the carrying. Even thinking about that memory makes my arms throb.

I snuggle deeper into Memnon’s chest, and uncaring that he’ll likely notice, I breathe in the smell of leather and man. It makes my gut clench in the strangest way.

His arms tighten around me again, and I feel another brush of his lips against my forehead.

The house is dark and quiet as Memnon heads up the stairs and down the hall, the only sound the creaking floorboards. When he gets to my room, he opens the door, flicks on the light, and carries me in, heading over to my bed. Gently, the sorcerer lays me out. Nero follows me onto the mattress before stretching out along my side.

I stare up at Memnon, feeling vulnerable like this. I get a thrill at the position because for all Memnon’s ferocity, I do feel safe in his presence.

The thrill lasts for only a moment. Memnon’s eyes widen as he gets a good look at me for the first time since he found me. Then his expression darkens…darkens until he looks murderous.

“Who did this to you?” His eyes have a feral look to them, and his earlier words really register then—about his rage making him kill indiscriminately. He looks like he wants to end lives.

Reaching down, he rips away the tattered remains of my black robe. I hear his sharp intake of breath at what he sees beneath.

“Selene.” There it is again. Panic. It laces Memnon’s voice.

Then he’s reaching for my shirt, grabbing the hem and—

Riiiip.

I gasp as the material splits down the middle, revealing my stomach and bra.

“What are you doing?” I demand. I shiver as the cool air hits my skin.

“Assessing your injuries,” he growls, flicking his gaze to my pants.

He pulls out a wicked-looking blade that was strapped to his side.

At the sight of it, I go still.

His eyes move back to mine, and his expression softens. He takes my hand and clasps it tightly, the hilt of his dagger brushing against my palm.

“Don’t be frightened, little witch,” he says. “This is so I can remove your pants and assess your injuries. Your clothes are”—he takes a bracing breath—“too blood soaked to pull off without jostling you.”

Blood soaked?

I don’t believe him, not until I glance down my torso and see the massive red stains myself. I didn’t realize my wounds were that bad—the robe obscured them from view.

I drag my attention back to him. A muscle jumps in his cheek, like he’s only barely holding in some emotion. His eyes run over my face as though he can’t help but take me in.

“Can I continue?” Memnon asks.

Swallowing, I nod.

He gives my hand a squeeze, then lays it down with the sort of care that makes me feel breakable. With his knife, he carefully cuts my jeans away, slicing open one pant leg, then the other.

I’m left in nothing but my bra and underwear, but Memnon only has eyes for my wounds. His indigo magic thickens and coils around him.

“Your enemies’ deaths will be slow,” he vows, and there is far too much conviction in his eyes.

I’m too weary to argue with him about this when my limbs are trembling, either from shock or exertion.

Gingerly, he lifts one of my feet, inspecting the pad of it. I already know the flesh down there is torn up. I felt the cuts I collected as I ran barefoot. By that point, I was too determined to care.

“You should’ve used my magic to heal yourself,” he chastises lightly. I notice then what I hadn’t before—Memnon’s foreign accent is gone, though how it vanished is a mystery.

“I was busy,” I rasp.

He inclines his head, like I make a fair point, setting my leg back down so he can shrug off the leather jacket he’s wearing. Beneath it, he wears a fitted black T-shirt. Even feeling like roadkill at the moment, I still manage to admire his thickly corded arm muscles and the tattoos that run along them.

Memnon tosses his jacket over the back of my desk chair, and that simple action is natural, as though he’s at home in my space, and I don’t know why I like it. It should tick me off.

It probably will tomorrow when I don’t feel like death warmed over.

The sorcerer kneels next to the bed. Gently, he reaches for the wound along my torso, the one Nero accidentally gave me. His touch is featherlight, but I still hiss out a breath at the contact.

“Relax, my wildcat,” he says, giving me an endearing look.

The sight of it throws me completely, and my weary heart picks up speed.

Memnon murmurs something under his breath, and I feel the tingling brush of his power against my side.

I grimace as, under his touch, my flesh repairs itself. It’s not painful, but it doesn’t feel good either. I try to wiggle away from it, but Memnon’s other hand braces my torso, holding me in place with a casual sort of familiarity. That too has my pulse picking up, and my brows come together.

“Good woman,” he praises, his eyes on my wound. “You’re taking it so well. So well.”

He’s talking about his healing magic, of course, but that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m half dead and tired beyond measure, yet somehow my enemy is making me think about screwing his brains out.

What is wrong with me?

My injury finishes stitching itself back together, saving me from my own thoughts.

Memnon removes his hand, which is still smeared with my blood, and rises to his feet.

Before I can ask him what he’s doing, he lifts my legs so he can sit where they rested on my bed. Then he places them both in his lap.

Softly, he strokes my legs. Again he murmurs a healing spell beneath his breath.

His magic sweeps over my legs, burrowing into the open wounds of my feet and my calf. The sensation is warm and itchy and uncomfortable. But Memnon keeps stroking my legs, and his hands feel so good.

“Tonight, I intend to heal you, Empress,” he says, his attention fixed to my feet. “But tomorrow, I want answers.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Why do you have to make that sound so ominous?” I say as the last of the wounds on my legs and feet seal up.

“Because,” Memnon says, lifting my feet so he can stand once more, “I am ominous. And I do want answers.” Memnon kneels next to me, his face tantalizingly close. “And you will give them to me, est amage.”

This close to him, I can see the thick sweep of his eyelashes and those complex brown eyes that seem to glitter. I can even see that wicked scar that trails along the side of his face. He looks like some lost relic.

I lift my chin obstinately at his words, but instead of replying, I reach out and touch his scar. I don’t know what possesses me to do such a thing.

Memnon goes still, letting me explore his face. I trail my finger over the line of the scar, following its brutal path along his face. It’s a wicked one.

“How did you get this?” I ask.

His brows come together. “I already told you, Selene.”

He has?

“Tell me again,” I say, continuing to feel my way along the scar’s path.

He frowns but answers, “My people were expanding their territory into Dacian land. Their king didn’t take that too kindly. He met us in battle and gave me this to remember him by.”

My eyes widen at that. “It looks like he nearly took your face off.”

“He tried to,” Memnon agrees.

I can feel my own horror at the thought that someone would try to take another still-living human’s face off.

The sorcerer’s eyes twinkle, and his lips curve up playfully. “Just when I assumed you could not get any more innocent, you go and hide yourself in a future that is even more…civilized than the Roman one you were raised in.”

“What happened to the king who did this to you?”

“I ran him through with my sword. And then I made his skull into a wine chalice.”

What?

“You’re lying,” I say.

“I’m not. It was one of my favorites.” He says it so calmly that fuck, if that’s true…

I shrink away from him.

Memnon frowns at my reaction. “It was the custom of our warriors to do such things. Just as it was custom that every Sarmatian woman ride into battle and kill at least one enemy before she was allowed to marry.”

What?

He stares at my shocked expression, something sad entering his eyes. “You had the same reactions the first time you learned these things. It is both a wonder and a heartbreak to see it all over again.”

I clear my throat. “I’m still trying to get over the fact you drank wine from the skulls of your enemies.” Not sure I’m ever going to get over that fact.

Memnon gives me a tight smile; then his eyes drop to my body, his gaze lingering on my ravaged shoulder. “I need to finish healing you, Empress. I’m going to have to roll you onto your stomach.”

I start to flip myself over, but then his hands are there, guiding me so I don’t jostle my injuries.

Gently, he removes the last of my shredded clothing still clinging to my back. Once the cool air kisses my skin, Memnon inhales sharply, presumably at the sight of my injuries.

“To think you never once believed yourself a true warrior-queen,” he mutters under his breath. I’m pretty sure the reference applies to Roxilana, not me. “You carry battle wounds that would make the fiercest of my fighters proud.”

“It’s that bad?” Memnon’s earlier spell is still blocking me from feeling pain.

The sorcerer runs a light hand around the injuries, and I close my eyes at the touch. It still feels unnervingly good.

“Heal these wounds,” he murmurs in Sarmatian. “Mend the flesh. Remake it as it was.”

His magic feels like a warm breath against my back. And then that warmth seeps into my skin, turning uncomfortable—almost itchy—and I know even without looking that the flesh is reforming, the wounds healing.

I lie there confused about how the evening went from me attending a spell circle for a little extra cash to being nearly killed by bloodthirsty witches and now being healed by my mortal enemy.

The warm press of magic fades, and Memnon smooths his hand down my back. I exhale at the sensation of his palm against my skin. There’s just something about the feel of his hands—hands that have led armies and killed and lifted chalices made from his foes’ skulls—that’s so damn intoxicating.

Pretty sure enjoying this makes me a rotten human. Oh well, maybe I’ll care tomorrow.

Memnon pauses, as though he senses my thoughts.

“Est amage,” he murmurs, “do you like that? I will keep touching you if you do. All you have to say is the word, and it is yours.”

Shit, maybe he does know my thoughts.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my nose. I sense that everything with this man comes at a price. He’s not naming it, but it must be there.

But given all that’s happened tonight…screw it.

“I like it,” I admit.

His hand doesn’t move. Why is his hand not moving? I wiggle a little, trying to get it going.

“Let me see your face,” he demands.

I turn to look at him. “Why?”

His eyes gaze at me intensely. “Because you are the only thing worth looking at, and my eyes have missed you.”

I frown. “I thought you hated me.”

He leans forward and runs a knuckle down my spine, and I feel myself arch, stretching like a cat against his touch. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Empress.”

I understand what he means. I want to hate this man’s guts—I know I should—but I don’t.

“Close your eyes and relax, and I will touch you,” he says.

I narrow my gaze. “Why should I trust you?”

He flashes me a sly smile. “You make a good point. There is only one person in the entire world who truly can trust me, and I’m staring at her.” His hand smooths over my back again, and I bite back the sound that wants to come out.

Going to make the supremely bad decision to trust this man because why not? I’ve already made fifty other bad choices; what’s one more?

So I close my eyes and let myself relax.

Nero must sense the shift in the room because he hops off the bed then. Several seconds later, I hear the click of his claws against the windowsill, followed by the rustle of the oak tree outside as my familiar flees the current situation. And to think that only a short while ago Nero scoffed at the thought of my bringing boys over. I’d say the joke’s on him, except I’m the one who’s half dead yet still enjoying the touch of my enemy.

So the joke is most definitely on me.

Memnon’s hand continues to move over me, skimming along my back, and it feels so damn good, it should be illegal. Up and down, up and down. The longer it goes, the more restless I get.

Not enough.

“More,” I plead so softly, I’m not sure he can hear me. The truth is that I’m not at all confident in making demands of him. Not after everything he’s already done for me tonight.

His hand stills, and there’s a long pause.

“What was that?” he says.

I’m not going to say it again. I’m not—

“More,” I say again, louder.

After a moment, Memnon’s hand moves again. “More what?” he says, and now I swear there’s a wicked edge to his words, as though he’s toying with me. But I can’t be sure.

I shift under his hand, my skin so sensitive. “I—I don’t know,” I admit, my eyes still closed.