Текст книги "Bewitched"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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CHAPTER 18

The news breaks later that day.

Another killing. Another witch gone too soon.

I try to focus during Intro to Magic, but all I can see is that shape on the ground, the one my mind couldn’t make sense of then—the one it still can’t make sense of. And then there was the oily, terror-steeped magic that clung to the crime scene like awful perfume.

Dark magic. True dark magic. The kind people sell their souls for.

It has me shivering even now.

The Politia hasn’t released much information about the killing, but it was obvious enough from what I saw that the attack happened sometime between yesterday evening and this morning.

Right after Memnon visited me.

I go cold all over.

Could he, in his anger, have attacked another witch? Could he have murdered her?

I remember the violence of Memnon’s power and presence.

Yes, he could have. Easily, he could’ve.

I draw in a shuddering breath, forcing the thoughts away before I spiral. I refocus on Professor Huang at the head of the lecture hall. They have pin-straight black hair that hangs all the way down to their thighs, and when they move, it swings like a curtain.

“As witches, we all draw magic from the world around us,” they say, making their way to the side of the stage, where a table rests. On it sit a dozen different items.

“However,” they continue, “every single one of you has a unique way of interacting with magic, and as you grow in your abilities, you’ll learn how to sculpt your power to fit your use.”

They move their hand over the items, touching them one by one. “I’ve set out several items, each one symbolic of a certain form of magic.”

I focus on the items in question. From where I sit, I can make out a potted plant, a loaf of bread, a locket, a dried bundle of herbs, a bowl of water, a crystal, a conch shell, a clay pot, a river rock, a bowl of soil, an unlit candle, a page of writing, and a vial of what looks like gray dust.

“Today, we’re going to learn the particular types of magic that call to you,” Professor Huang says. “This will give you a good foundational understanding of your own magic, which you can then build on. It’s important to know our magical strengths. And later in this course, we will do this again. Only, next time, we will look for the items you want to avoid—those will be your magical aversions.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself.” They clap their hands once, their hair swaying with the action. “Now, witches,” they say, “I’ll have you come down—please form a line in front of the table.”

I get up and follow my classmates down to the stage.

“I know what many of you are thinking,” Professor Huang says as we all get in line. “Why must you do this again when you have likely done it before?”

We’ve…done this before?

My mind strains to find a similar memory to this, one that either happened here at Henbane or at Peel Academy. None comes to me.

If the memory once existed, it’s become a casualty of my magic.

Our instructor continues. “I recommend repeating this test every few years. As we all know, magic is wily and wild, and it likes to grow and change just as much as we do.”

Once we’ve all lined up, Professor Huang moves to the table and the witch at the front. “Now let’s begin.”

One by one, my classmates step up to the table and pick out several items that represent their magical preferences. Most end up gravitating to the potted plant—green magic—as well as the loaf of bread and the bundle of herbs, all items that really speak to the life-giving, medicinal nature of witchcraft.

Every so often someone reaches for the locket, or the piece of paper, or the crystal. I watch, fascinated, curious about what I’ll end up picking.

When it’s my turn, I step up to the table, my magic buzzing beneath my veins. My eyes sweep over the items. I already know what my magic likes best—memories. But the items before me are conduits, allowing magic to be used to its furthest extent.

“Eyes closed, hand out,” Professor Huang instructs.

I do as they ask. I can’t see the objects clearly with my eyes closed, but I can sense the magic pulsing through each one. I reach out an arm, my palm turned toward the items.

Almost immediately, my hand moves, drifting to the right, then down, until my fingertips touch something wet.

“Water,” my instructor murmurs. “Go on.”

My arm moves again, now drawn to a different section of the table. When my hand drops into another bowl, I don’t even need to hear what my instructor has to say. I can feel the soft soil sifting between my fingers.

I lift my hand out of the dirt. Right next to it is another item tugging at me for attention.

My hand wraps around a smooth stone.

“River rock,” Professor Huang says. “Anything else?”

I release the smooth stone. My magic is calling me to two final points on the table. I go with the closest item first, my fingers brushing the rough rim of something and nearly knocking it over. I place my palm more firmly over it.

“The Vinča cup,” my instructor murmurs. “Interesting, my dear.”

A sharp pull has my arm moving once more. With my eyes still shut, I close my hand around a cool glass vial. This is it, the last item.

“Moon dust,” Professor Huang says as my eyes flutter open. Beneath my hand is the vial filled with dark dirt.

“Good job,” my instructor says. “What an unusual combination.”

My disappointment leaves a bitter tang on my tongue.

Water, dirt, a rock, a pot, and…moon dust? Those are the things I’m drawn to? Not the herbs? Not the bread? I fucking adore bread.

My magic feels cold and lifeless.

“Water may indicate you’ll have a knack for potion making,” my instructor says. “It’s interesting that you picked the river rock but not the crystals and the soil but not the plant. The clay pot is particularly notable as it is nearly five thousand years old, and it contains some of the first forms of writing etched onto it.” They point to a small and crudely made spiral. “Finally, the moon dust is an indication that your power may be sensitive to the lunar phases—those can really heighten spells, but you’ll need to read up on them.”

They pat me on the shoulder.

“Wonderful job,” they murmur. “Remember too that there are objects not present that could also tap into your powers—solar magic, astral magic, and numeric magic are just a few. Your homework assignment is to write a paper on your specific magical affinities and how you think they interact with your magic. Due next Friday.”

With that, they dismiss me. And now I’m left to wonder what I’m supposed to do with a power that likes dirt and rocks, clay and water, but not plants. Or herbs.

Or bread.

I mean, what sort of twisted magic doesn’t like motherfucking bread?

It’s only as I’m nearly home that I realize there was a very obvious life-giving item not present, one my instructor did not address at all.

Flesh.

Blood and bone can produce life-giving magic just as much as plants and dried herbs can. They also happen to tease that line between light magic and dark.

As I head for the residence hall, I can’t help wondering if my power isn’t as cold and lifeless as I think it is.

Perhaps it does like life-giving items. Perhaps it hungers for something that comes from the soil and returns to it, something more substantive than plants. Something that grows and dies.

Something that bleeds.

But I’ll never find out one way or another. Blood magic is forbidden.

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CHAPTER 19

Having a familiar is creating some problems.

Besides the most obvious problem, which is that loose panthers make even witches nervous, there’s the fact that feeding a big cat is expensive, especially for a broke girl like me.

I mean, technically, Nero is often out in the surrounding forest hunting wild game—I try not to shudder at the thought—but that comes with its own issues. For instance, he may be doing so on lycanthrope territory, and that could have potentially catastrophic fallout. Not to mention that in the meantime, Nero would be poaching off them.

It’s all one massive headache, and it’s just easier if I can get him food from the butcher.

So I have to get a job.

I look at the bulletin board hanging in the hallway to the left of my house’s main staircase. Pinned to it are several job listings. I stare at them all like they’re the Holy Grail.

Before I lived here, I couldn’t land a single one of these jobs. Each one required a coven-affiliated witch, which I wasn’t at the time.

Now, however, I can do any of them—assuming they hire me.

I scan the listings. Someone wants a witch to enchant five years off their face. Another one wants a cleaning spell placed on their house. Still another is for some undisclosed need, but it’s printed on fancy card stock, which makes me think whoever posted it has money to spend.

Money I could definitely use, especially since I learned earlier today that the amulet I remade for Wards didn’t earn me that sought-after apprenticeship.

I jot down the number for each job post. Personally, I’m not sure I could lift five years from a toad, let alone a person, nor do I know a satisfying cleaning spell (my old apartment was proof of that). But I’m willing to learn, so long as it gets me a few extra dollars.

Another witch steps up to the bulletin board, looking at the listings. “There are never enough postings here, in my opinion,” she says.

I make a noise of agreement, even though what do I know? I’m new here.

The witch turns to me, and the first thing I notice about her is how white her teeth are. White and straight. Then it’s her perfectly arched brows and the way her hair falls in orderly loose waves. Witches are often striking in one way or another. Whether that’s a long nose, a short frame, odd eyes, frizzy hair, generous curves, an addled mind, a long face, a prominent birthmark, or—in this witch’s case—some pleasing symmetry.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say, turning my attention back to the bulletin board. Technically, I’m looking for something easy, but I’ll settle for what’s available.

“So just short on cash?” she says.

I hesitate, then glance back over at the witch next to me.

I mean, yes, my bank account sobs into a bottle of wine most days of the week, but I don’t want to come off as desperate.

The witch notices my hesitation. “Sorry, I hope that wasn’t rude,” she says. “It’s just that…” She glances around, then leans in toward me. “There’s a spell circle some of us do every new moon that’s funded by a few private sponsors. It’s a little shady, but it pays well.”

That sounds very interesting and 100 percent not up my alley. Listen, I’m all for pushing the rules, but I learned my lesson about not messing with shady shit when I opened a warded tomb and let out an ancient evil who thinks I’m his dead wife and is now stalking me. And maybe killing witches.

A girl can only take so much trouble.

But…I am also desperate—both for quick cash and friendship.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

And then promptly forget. All for the best though.

The witch smiles back at me. “Please do. It’s an easy five hundred.”

Dollars?

I suck in a breath and nearly choke on my saliva. “I’m sorry, what?” Five hundred dollars? That has to be a joke.

Or it’s something illegal.

Probably very, very illegal.

The witch flashes me a secretive smile. “Our sponsors pay well.”

Seriously. Five hundred dollars is almost enough to make me throw my morals to the wind.

After a moment’s hesitation, my coven sister pulls out a notebook, and she scribbles something on it. “I’m Kasey, and this is my number. If you decide to join, you can text me here.” She taps the written number, then backs away. “Think about it, and let me know. Next circle is happening on Saturday.” She gives me a wave and heads up the stairs, calling out over her shoulder, “I hope you decide to come.”

When I walk into my room, the lights are on, music is blaring from my speakers, and there’s an overgrown man sitting in my computer chair, his muscled arms and tattoos on display below the sleeves of his fitted T-shirt. In front of him is one of my social media pages. It’s open to a photo of me and Sybil wearing onesies and holding red Solo cups. I’m sticking out my tongue and making the peace sign with my fingers, while she’s blowing a kiss.

It’s…not my best moment. Not that I remember that particular evening.

My gaze slides back from the photo to Memnon. “What the fuck?” I say.

I raise my hand, readying my magic, angry rather than scared.

Memnon leans back in my computer chair, snaps his fingers, and poof, everything goes silent.

“Fascinating world you live in,” he responds—in English. He has a subtle foreign accent, so the words come out guttural and rolling.

His eyes drift over me, taking in the short wrap dress I wore to class. His gaze grows heated.

I angrily toss my bag onto my bed, my pulse rate climbing. “What are you doing in here?” I demand.

Memnon threads his hands behind his head, leaning back in my seat. “I’m seeing where my scheming wife lives,” he says, still speaking in English. He glances around him. “Your room is smaller than even our wagon was.” His eyes move over the sticky notes that cover the room. “I see you haven’t lost your love of writing.”

“You can’t just…come in here whenever you please,” I say, alarmed by the fact he already has.

Not even going to ask about how he knew which room was mine.

Memnon narrows his eyes at me, all while wearing this insufferable little smirk that makes me feel warm in all the wrong places.

Why must I have this reaction to him? He’s obviously evil, and the scar and the power he oozes are really driving that home. My body simply isn’t catching up to my mind.

“Does that bother you, est amage?” My queen. Those two words are the only he’s uttered so far in his old tongue.

Of course it bothers me. He made himself my enemy.

He also might have murdered two witches.

And once again, I’m trapped in a small room with him.

“Last time I saw you, I banished you,” I state.

Memnon drops his hands from behind his head to the chair’s armrests. “Yes, well, your magic likes me too much to keep me out for long.”

I frown at him, remembering how his spells melted away once my magic touched them. The thought that our powers like each other is perhaps the most unsettling thing I’ve heard all day.

“You need to leave,” I say.

“I’ll go when I’m ready.”

I want to scream. “I swear to the goddess I will banish you again if you don’t leave.”

He grins again, and maybe it’s the way it tugs at his scar, or maybe it’s how it displays his sharp canines, but I shiver at how nefarious that smile is. Nefarious and absurdly sexy.

I get hot and flustered at the sight of it.

Memnon lifts his chin. “Try it, little witch.”

I stare at him for a long moment. There’s a wild look in his eyes; he’s watching me like a snake about to strike.

A banishment spell might be a very, very bad idea.

I’ll need to get him out some other way. But first—

My eyes flick to my social media page, where the picture of me and Sybil is still taking up most of the screen.

I cross over to my desk before leaning over Memnon so I can exit out of the page.

Memnon bends forward, skimming his lips against my hair.

I freeze at the contact.

“You came and woke me”—he almost purrs it, his voice is so soft—“and now you continue just existing as though nothing has changed.”

I swallow, trying to control the way my body trembles at his nearness. My dreams come back to me then, and I vividly remember how it felt to have him close.

I shut my laptop screen and back away from the desk.

Memnon catches my wrist. “Roxilana, tell me why,” he beseeches.

For once, this terrifying supernatural is unguarded, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me, something beyond heat and anger.

“My name is Selene,” I remind him.

“You can lie to everyone else, but not to me,” he says.

He really thinks this is some elaborate charade this woman, Roxilana, has been keeping up.

No wonder he’s confused.

“I’m not her,” I insist.

He stands slowly from his seat, and I’m reminded all over again of just how large this man is. I have to tilt my head back to look at him. It doesn’t help that every inch of him seems to be made of heavy corded muscle.

Memnon reaches out, and I shrink away. He scowls when he sees my reaction, but that doesn’t stop him from cupping my cheeks and tilting my head up.

One of his thumbs strokes my cheek. “You have my Roxi’s same blue eyes, down to the white line that rings the inside of them.” He tilts my face to the side, moving one of his hands to touch something near my ear. “You have the same two freckles she had right here.” As Memnon speaks, his eyes soften.

His hand moves to my hair, and it’s as though he’s forgotten himself and his vendetta for a moment. His touch is almost reverent as he runs his fingers along the strands. I find myself mesmerized by it.

“And this hair,” he says, “is the same cinnamon color my Roxi’s was.” He drops my hair then, his other hand still cupping my face. “You have a birthmark on the back of your left thigh, and your second toes are longer than your big ones. Shall I go on?”

I stare at him like I’ve seen a ghost. “H-how do you know those things about me?” I say.

His brows come together in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I know those things? I have spent years mapping you out—as you have me.”

What?

Almost instinctively, my gaze moves to that scar of his. Memnon has many distinct features, but that scar is perhaps the most prominent of them.

Seeing where my attention is drawn, he says softly, “You can touch it, est amage.”

I shouldn’t.

It feels at best like a bad idea and at worst, a trap. That doesn’t stop me from stepping into Memnon’s space and reaching out a tentative hand. The moment my fingers touch the puckered skin of his scar, his eyes close and his nostrils flare.

Memnon stands as still as stone while I draw my fingers along the path of it, moving first to his ear, then down toward his chin.

“This looks like it hurt,” I murmur.

He makes a noncommittal sound. Because of course it hurt. It must’ve been awful.

I get to the end of the scar, and reluctantly, I let my hand drop.

When Memnon opens his eyes again, I don’t see any trace of his anger. Instead, there’s longing so deep, it makes my stomach flip.

“Wife,” he breathes, his eyes moving to my lips.

I swallow, my own gaze going to his mouth. I want to kiss him again, just to taste his yearning. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me that way.

But I’m not his wife. Whatever wonderful, tragic love story he had, it wasn’t with me.

I place a hand to my temple, trying to clear away my own desire. “How do you know English?” I say distractedly, just to get my mind off kissing him.

“You know my power,” he says, almost obstinately, as though he thinks I’m still lying. “You know I can pull what I want from the minds of others, including language.”

My eyes widen.

He can do what now?

Memnon tilts his head. “Why are you still pretending with me, Empress?” he asks, some of that earlier anger seeping back into his eyes.

“I’m not pretending anything, Memnon.”

“Then how do you know Sarmatian, the language of my people? Supposedly, it’s been a dead language for many, many centuries.”

So that’s the language I’ve been speaking. Sarmatian. “I know several inexplicable—”

“It’s not inexplicable,” Memnon insists before I can finish. “It’s proof of your life with me.”

I give him a look. “This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Memnon.”

His gaze grows intense. “No, nearly everything in my life is about you.”

He continues to stare at me, and it causes me to squirm.

“I’m not your Roxi,” I insist, not letting myself dwell on his point about languages. “I can prove it.”

I have to at this point, both for his sake and for mine. Because that’s what memory loss does to you—makes you relentlessly question your reality.

My gaze sweeps over my things, looking for something—anything—to convince this man I could not possibly be his traitorous wife. When my eyes land on the spines of my photo albums, I pause.

Of course.

So painfully obvious.

Slipping past Memnon, I move over to my albums and pull out every single one.

Gathering them, I nod to my computer chair.

“Sit,” I command.

A split second after I give the order, I’m sure he’s not going to listen. But Memnon flashes me an amused look and obediently sits back at my chair, splaying his legs wide.

I drop all the albums on my bed before picking out one that’s bound in beige cloth with the word Memories written in gold foil across the front.

Memnon watches me with unnerving intensity as I come over to him, album in hand.

A strange tugging sensation rises in my chest as I draw close. I force myself to ignore every last little thing about him because I want to dwell on it all—the burnished bronze of his skin, the twisting form of his tattoos, the rippling bands of his muscles.

I hand the photo album over to him. “Here’s your proof.”

Memnon scowls at the book in his hands, his narrowed gaze flicking from it to me, as though this is some sort of elaborate hoax.

Reluctantly, he opens it.

He grows almost preternaturally quiet. Drawn in by his reaction—hell, drawn in by him—I move to his side, peeking over his shoulder at the images. This album starts on my eighth birthday. There are pictures of me, my friends, the bounce house we rented out in what must be our backyard.

I’m blowing out candles, opening presents, making funny faces with my friends. My hair is wild, my incisors are only partially grown in, and I have a scattering of freckles across my nose that have since disappeared.

I don’t remember that day, nor the house. But one of my friends—Em…Emily. Yes, I remember her.

As Memnon flips through the pages, he reaches out one of his hands and absently strokes my arm with his knuckles.

My breath escapes me as I look down at that contact—contact the sorcerer doesn’t even seem to notice. I should move my arm. A sane person would.

Instead, I let my would-be husband caress me.

His touch is so soft and so at odds with every violent aspect of him. His hand only moves away to trace the shape of my face in a close-up—this one of me at a family wedding a year or two later. I vaguely remember that event.

One of Memnon’s legs jiggles, and the more pages he turns, the more agitatedly his leg moves.

All at once, he tosses the album aside.

“No,” he says. “No.” He stands, running his fingers through his hair. My deviant little eyes notice how his shirt clings to his torso with the action.

“If you are not my Roxi, then who are you?” he says, his eyes desolate.

Oh, this one I got. “I am Selene Bowers. My parents are Olivia and Benjamin Bowers. I was born on—”

He’s shaking his head, pinching his eyes shut. “No, no, no. I don’t believe it. I won’t.”

“The woman who betrayed you is gone. I’m someone else. I was born twenty years ago. What other proof do you need?”

His eyes open, and he looks me over, his attention settling on my upper chest.

“Your skin—I would like to see it, est amage.”

I frown at him. “I’m not getting naked.”

“Not today, no,” he agrees.

His answer makes my breath catch, and his words pluck at my magic like a strummed chord.

Memnon rises from my chair before approaching me slowly, like I might take off at any moment. “You have tattoos.”

A strange hum starts up between us, a hum that’s not really a hum at all. I think it has to do with our magic, but I feel it moving along my arms and spine, and it’s making my heart flutter.

“Roxilana had tattoos,” I correct. I have none. But now my interest is piqued.

Memnon comes up to me and gestures for my arm.

Oh, now he asks for permission before he manhandles me?

I move my arm into his reach. Slowly, as though not to scare me off, Memnon takes my forearm, and with his other hand, he lifts the fluttery sleeve of my dress, revealing my upper arm and shoulder.

I hear his exhale, and my gaze flicks to his face.

He looks…disbelieving.

One of Memnon’s fingers comes up, tracing phantom lines on my arm.

“You had a panther tattooed right here,” he says, his voice flat, controlled. “And beneath it, a slain deer.”

Sounds cute.

Memnon’s hand moves from my shoulder and settles on my chest, right over my heart. It’s an intimate touch, even though it’s only inches away from where it was.

Logic is telling me to knock the sorcerer’s hand away. Instinct is telling me to press my hand over his and anchor him to me. So I compromise and do nothing.

“You had my mark right here,” he says softly.

For a second, I think Memnon means to move the neckline of my dress aside. Instead, he reaches for his own shirt before pulling it off in one smooth stroke.

Nobody said you could get undressed in my room.

My protest dies in my throat as soon as my eyes land on his exposed torso. I swallow at the sight of his packed muscles, but it’s impossible to notice his muscles without noticing his tattoos as well. Memnon is covered in them—a deer whose horns sprout flowers, a trampled griffin, a snarling panther who seems to be clawing up Memnon’s neck. And right over the sorcerer’s heart—a winged dragon.

He touches that inked image now. “My family’s clan mark,” he says, staring at me. His eyes are raw.

Now I do tug aside the neckline of my dress, just to show him my own unmarred expanse of skin. There’s no dragon over my heart, just as there were no beasts on my arm.

I hear Memnon’s quick inhale, and for an instant, I see something in his expression that I haven’t before—despair. It vanishes a moment later.

“You removed them,” he accuses, though there’s not much force behind it.

I shake my head. “I never had them to begin with.”

“You are cunning, Roxi,” he says, and I get goose bumps from a nickname that is still not meant for me. “A few conjured photos and some bare skin might convince another man, but I have seen the extent of your mind and your magic. You will have to do better.”

“My photos are not conjured,” I all but growl at him. Those albums are precious to me because they captured much of what my mind has lost—my past.

Judging from the obstinate set of Memnon’s jaw, I can tell this isn’t even about photos or tattoos or logic. The thought that I am not this Roxilana is unfathomable to him.

But he must be considering it. After all, he hasn’t been threatening me, and when I look in his eyes, I see bewilderment instead of malice.

He looks halfway convinced. If I can fully convince him, he may stop accosting me.

A terrible idea pops into my head.

I draw in a deep breath. “Your power allows you to draw information from people’s minds?” I ask.

Memnon gives me a long look, like he can’t make up his mind whether I’m being deceitful. Finally, he gives a slight nod.

I run a hand through my hair, my heart rate accelerating as I say, “Then I propose a deal: if you can answer a question of mine honestly…then I’ll let you use your power on my mind and see for yourself.”

I’m actually surprised Memnon hasn’t already done something this simple. But when I look at him now, he appears…unsettled by the prospect.

Maybe this man does have some ethics after all.

Or maybe he just really doesn’t want to answer my mystery question.

He searches my gaze, looking for who knows what. After a moment, he inclines his head. “Ask your question, little witch.”

He’s going for it. Great Goddess, he’s going for it.

Before I can chicken out, I raise my hand, my power sifting out of my palm. Memnon gazes at the peach-colored magic with something like fondness.

“Answer the following without deceit,” I incant. “Only the truth shall you speak.”

My power snakes across the space between us, slipping between the seam of his lips and up through his nostrils. He draws in a deep inhale, closing his eyes for a moment.

The corners of his mouth curve up. “Your spell has taken root.” He sounds disturbingly pleased by the sensation. His eyes open. “I’m ready.”

I can hear my heart thumping as I form the question. I’m so petrified of Memnon’s answer that part of me wants to choose another.

But if this man is going to keep showing up, the right answer would really settle part of my nerves.

“Are you murdering the witches found dead on campus?”

Memnon holds my gaze, his face impassive. I see his throat work, as though the answer is trying to wriggle its way free. He holds it back, curving his lips into a defiant smile.

I wait, feeling my spell at work.

Finally, his lips part. “No.”

My magic releases him all at once, and I sag with relief.

He’s not the killer.

He’s not the killer.

I want to sob. I didn’t realize what a weight that had been, thinking Memnon had hurt innocent witches.

His gaze flits over me. “I take it you’re relieved.”

I exhale. “Very.”

Memnon watches me silently. If he was offended I thought he was the murderer—or disappointed that now I don’t—he doesn’t say it or show it.

I run my hands through my hair, composing myself once more.

“Come here then, Empress.” He gestures me forward. “It’s my turn.”

I take a hesitant step toward him.

“Closer,” he insists.

Oh Goddess, am I really going to let a sorcerer rifle through my head? I didn’t think this plan out fully.

I step into his space, trying to banish my nerves. “Is there anything you need?”

Memnon places his hands on either side of my head, and I jolt a little at the touch. “Just you.”

That odd humming noise between us grows louder, and my breath comes in shallow pants. It could also be his words. Everything he says sounds like a double entendre.

I don’t mean to glance up and meet the sorcerer’s stare head-on, but this close to him, with his hands tilting my face up to his, there’s nowhere else to look.

His whiskey-brown eyes are tender, affectionate. My heart skips a beat at the sight.

I have been inside you more times than there are stars to count.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I force away the memory.

Memnon gives me a shadow of a smile. An instant later, however, it’s gone. “Close your eyes,” he commands.

I stare at him for a moment longer, feeling small and vulnerable with his hands cupping my face, the wall of his body looming over me, and his face so close.

Drawing a fortifying breath, I let my eyelids flutter shut.