Текст книги "Bespelled"

Автор книги: Laura Thalassa

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Again the chains rattle and Memnon’s muscles strain. I like that reaction.

I do it again and again and again.

Memnon groans. “My lovely, wicked mate. I was wrong earlier. This is simply torment.”

“Good,” I say. “You deserve to be tormented.” I find a rhythm and stick to it. The sorcerer’s hips move in time with mine, meeting me thrust for thrust until I’m gasping and moaning.

I look at the sorcerer’s face, and my heart feels like it’s caving in, and my lungs can’t quite draw in enough air.

I cup the side of his face. Beloved. I remember when he was beloved by me. I can feel the emotion right there, waiting to sweep back in.

He doesn’t have to be my enemy. He doesn’t have to even be just my friend. We could have what we once did.

I lean forward and kiss Memnon again, my hand moving from his cheek. I’m torn. So torn. I want to let go. I’m scared to do so. I’m not sure I'll have a choice soon.

The manacles clang and the headboard knocks against the wall, and then I feel Memnon’s arms wrap around me even as he continues to kiss me.

I flick my eyes to the headboard, where the now empty manacles hang limply against Memnon’s belt.

“I’m sorry, est amage,” he breathes, breaking off the kiss. “I wanted to be a good captive. I did. But after two thousand years apart, I have grown greedy.”

With that, he flips us so I’m beneath him, and now he’s setting the pace, his cock driving into me harder and harder, the action making slick, wet sounds.

I gasp out a breath, not just because the change in tempo is rapidly driving me toward an orgasm. Pinned beneath him like this, I’m not in control. Not unless I command him, and my heart’s not interested in that.

Instead, I stare up at him, feeling lighter than air, afraid I might fall. Terrified he’ll notice and make it happen.

So I force my eyes away and rake my nails up his back, focusing my attention on where the two of us are joined.

“Love your pussy most when it’s stretched around me like this,” he says. “I can feel it fluttering.”

Memnon grinds himself against me, swiveling his hips in a figure eight motion.

I gasp at the sensation, nearly going boneless.

When I meet his eyes, he flashes me a wicked look. “There are perks to my knowing your body as well as I do.”

You can let go, a small voice inside me says. He will catch you.

Don’t fall, another voice cautions. Once you do, there will be no going back.

Let go.

Hold on.

Fall.

Don’t.

I grasp Memnon’s ass, my nails digging in as I brace myself, each thrust throwing me closer and closer to the edge.

“Tell me to stop and I will stop,” he says, unaware of my thoughts. “Bound or not, I’m still your captive.” He means it too. I see that.

But I can’t tell him to stop. Not when each stroke feels like a slice of heaven.

So instead, I stare at him as I climb and climb and⁠—

My nails dig in. “Memnon.”

That’s all I manage to get out before my orgasm shatters through me. Memnon watches me as I come, his strokes relentless, his eyes greedily drinking in my expression.

I stare into those smoky amber eyes, locked in whatever spell he’s cast. Or maybe this is the magic of our bond—the one fate made for us.

Fall. Don’t. Fall.

Memnon comes then, his body crashing against mine again and again and again.

His orgasm seems endless, and his expression is the definition of bliss. His eyes never leave mine, even after his climax has rolled through him.

My heart thunders.

Will either of us know when the bond between us is broken? Will we sense it? I want to give him a command, just to check. But then he’ll know I’m checking the bond, and he’ll quickly put together just how close I am to falling for him. I don’t want him to know. I still have my sliver of control, and I want to wield it until it disintegrates away.

Memnon slows, studying me as he pulls out, a slight frown marring his lips, as though he senses the undercurrents of my thoughts. But then the expression is wiped free from his face, and I have no idea whether I imagined it all.

Before I get the chance to flee, the sorcerer gathers me to him, and…it’s nice. Really nice.

Maybe I’ll just lie here for a little while…

The shackles were fun, Empress.

They were.

Too bad they didn’t hold you, I say. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I ask. I don’t know why I ask. He’s already given me this bed, this room. But now he’s in it, and our bodies are cooling, and this situation feels hasty.

Right here, in my arms.

There’s no hesitation to his words, just a shit ton of kingly authority. It’s pretty ballsy, considering I’m the one with the commands. At least I think I can still command him.

But his arms feel nice. No, better than nice—they feel like home, even if I’m loath to admit it.

How long are you planning on holding me? I ask.

As long as I can get away with.

Warmth suffuses me. Damn this man.

For several minutes, the two of us lie there, Memnon playing with my hair and me tracing his tattoos. I nearly put myself in a trance, following those flowing, curving lines.

“What’s the strangest thing about the modern world?” I ask.

“There are many strange things about this world,” he says smoothly, as though the question isn’t completely out of the blue. “Cars, computers, phones, television. There is such precision to even common things, and there are so many choices—gods, the choices. There’s also the ease of existence. Things that once took hours you can now buy instantly and cheaply.”

“Is any of it off-putting?” I ask.

“It is all off-putting.”

“You wouldn’t know it,” I say softly. This is a man who’s electronically deposited money into my account, who drove me in his car, then his motorcycle, and who is holding down a job, even if it is for the supernatural mafia. A man who has some grasp on modern fashion and who now speaks English flawlessly.

“I have spent whole weeks mining people’s minds for information on this modern world so that I might not fall prey to it,” he confesses.

I try not to think of what that must’ve looked like and how many people’s heads he must’ve pried into.

“Do you regret being here, in the modern world?”

“If you had asked me before I saw your memories, I would’ve said yes,” Memnon answers. “Now, however, I know truly what you did. You, Roxilana, bought us a future when there was none, and you paid for it with your life. We no longer have armies or palaces, but we exist, little witch. You go by a different name and speak a different tongue and wear different clothes, but you are still my soul mate and my queen.”

And you are still my king. I almost say it, but I bite back the sentiment.

“I do have a family,” I say instead.

That was one of my deepest agonies in my past life—losing them. And it is something I took for granted up until my memories returned to me.

Memnon’s face lights with interest. “Your family,” he says, as though it’s only now clicking. “They were in your photo albums.” Despite seeing their pictures, it seems as though he’s only now putting together what that actually means to me. “I haven’t met them,” he says, and there’s true regret in his voice.

I nearly laugh. Of course he hasn’t met them.

“You’ve been too busy making yourself my enemy to get the chance to meet your future in-laws.”

I realize my mistake immediately.

Unfortunately, so does Memnon.

“My future in-laws?” His voice is dripping with delight.

I cannot even explain the slip of tongue.

“I can,” Memnon says, listening in to my thoughts. “You rode me better than I ride horses. Of course you want more.”

Goddess above. I cover his mouth. “You are never to speak another lewd comment that involves me and horses.”

“Forever?” he asks solemnly, his response muffled by my hand.

“Forever and ever and ever,” I say, feeling a perplexing combination of relief and disappointment that the command seems to take.

“Aw, damn, soul mate,” he says, dragging my hand away. “Now you’ve just given me a challenge too good to pass up.”

He moves down my body.

“What is the challenge? And what are you doing?”

The sorcerer keeps lowering himself, the tips of his hair brushing against my skin. It’s not until he’s settled himself between my thighs and spread them apart that I become aware of what he intends to do.

“It’s dirty down there!” I say, attempting to close my legs.

He easily catches them and moves them one by one over his shoulders.

“Take the order back, and I won’t horrify your delicate senses.”

“I take it back! You can say lewd things all you want.”

“Thank you, mate.”

And then he leans in and kisses my pussy anyway.

I’m about to screech like an owl when he pulls away, laughing. “All right, fine, keep me away from your pussy.” He rests his head on my pubic bone. “But I do want to meet my future wife’s parents.”

I groan and cover my eyes with my hand. “Please never again bring my parents up when you’re about to eat me out.”

Down our bond, I can feel his pleasure, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I didn’t fight him on the issue of marriage.

He knows you’re crumbling.

“Does this mean I get to feast on you after all?” he says.

“Memnon,” I groan.

“Never mind.” He moves up my body, draping himself over me. “When do I get to meet them?” he asks, brushing my hair away from my face.

I’m too distracted by the new yet familiar feel of his weight on me to answer. Despite our size difference, we fit together like puzzle pieces.

He brushes a finger over my lower lip, then leans in and kisses me. “When?” he presses.

My parents. Right. “They’re away at the moment, playing tourist around Europe, but once they return home, maybe…” I trail off, unsure what exactly I want to say—unsure of exactly what I want.

“Yes,” Memnon says, and I hear the eagerness in his response. “I would like that.”

Warmth blossoms at his response. I feel incandescent with it.

The sorcerer shifts against me, and I feel his hardening length brush against my leg.

Where in the Goddess’s name do you get this stamina?

Magic and two millennia of yearning, he says.

He begins kissing my upper arm and shoulder, his hand moving to cup my sex. “Now open those thighs, my pretty mate. We have a long night ahead of us.”

He doesn’t give me much peace.

If his cock isn’t in me, then it’s his mouth or his fingers, and none of my earlier squeamishness does much to change that. The only breaks are when he uses his magic to float our dinner into the room and feed it to me or the brief spurts of sleep we have between rounds.

When we had sex on Samhain, I assumed our fervor was driven by the witch’s brew. But there’s a feverishness in us both that drives us to come together again and again throughout the night.

At some point before dawn, I feel Memnon’s fingers trail over my cheek, and then the soft brush of his lips.

“My heart is filled to bursting,” he murmurs.

I reach for him, though I am tired and sore. Rather than letting me reel him in, he takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

“I have to go, but I will be back as soon as possible. Be well and sleep deeply, my queen.”

His hand slides from mine, and then he’s gone.

I wake some time later, the sun low in the sky. There’s a warm body pressed against my back.

Immediately, my heart begins to hammer, and I flip over, excited and nervous to see Memnon. But it’s not Memnon taking up space on the bed. It’s Nero.

The moment I shift, my massive familiar leans his head back toward me, silently asking for pets.

I rub under his chin. “Look at you,” I say fondly. “Sneaking onto the bed at the first opportunity.”

The big cat looks mighty pleased with himself.

I pet him a little longer, then attack his face with kisses until, affronted by the gross display of affection, my panther rolls away.

Oh, to be a cat.

I slip out of Memnon’s bed, my body satisfyingly sore. I’m also stark naked, I smell like sex and sweat, and I need another birth-control potion.

Fuck, if I’m doing this regularly, I’ll need to stockpile the stuff or else get a human prescription.

I shower, then change. Memnon still hasn’t returned by the time I’m fully dressed, and I have thirty minutes until my first class of the day begins.

I’m not missing it.

I’m about to call a car when I wander into the foyer and my eyes land on a side table. A set of car keys rest there.

What do you want? Memnon had asked me last night.

Well, sir, today I want the car.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 29

When Nero and I arrive on Henbane campus, we’re greeted with the sound of anguished howls.

Stepping away from Memnon’s car, I stare out across the grassy lawn, toward the tree line behind Morgana Hall and Cauldron Hall. Nero comes to my side, his ears perked.

Something is obviously happening.

The baleful howls continue as I head to Cauldron Hall, its stone façade looking particularly ominous against the overcast sky. My skin prickles. I haven’t checked on the wolves since Nero was attacked. Perhaps I should’ve.

A witch with warm brown skin and curly black hair passes me, and I stop her.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask, nodding toward the tree line beyond the campus buildings.

The witch pauses, her hooded brown eyes flittering over me and Nero.

“You haven’t heard?” she asks. “A lycanthrope has been killed.”

Immediately, I call Kane. The phone rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer. I try again, and then a third time.

Nothing.

Fuck.

Of course Kane’s not answering. He’s out in the woods with the rest of his pack, mourning the shifter they lost.

I call once more and leave a hasty message, and then reluctantly, I head into Wards.

I sit there among my peers, listen to the lecture, and I diligently take notes, but the excitement that normally suffuses this class is lost on me. It feels pointless, so goddess-damned pointless to be here, when all around us, supernaturals are being preyed on.

Perhaps this latest death is unrelated to the murders. Perhaps the dead shifter got gored by a deer or shot by some trigger-happy human who wandered onto the wrong patch of wilderness. Perhaps it was a mere accident or a more mundane misfortune.

I don’t know for sure until shortly after class lets out.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I head down the stone steps of Cauldron Hall. I snatch it up before the second ring.

“Hello?” I answer, ducking as someone’s bat familiar zips past my head.

“Selene?” Kane says. His voice is unnaturally low and gravelly. In the background, the grief-filled howls are amplified, the noise punctuated by whimpers and sobs.

“I heard the news. I’m so sorry, Kane,” I say.

The other end of the line is quiet, and part of me is sure Kane’s shifted and I’m now speaking to a wolf.

“Miranda was ripped apart,” he finally says, “just like the witches on your side of the woods.” It’s silent for another long moment, then he adds, “Her body carried the stink of something unnatural…” Kane’s voice disintegrates into a growl.

I take that in, wondering how much time I have to talk with the lycanthrope before he gives in to his shift.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, though the sentiment rings hollow. What is an apology in the face of a life cut horrifyingly short? “Do you or your pack mates need anything?” I ask. I don’t know that I have anything of substance to offer, but the rest of my peers and I have dealt with these deaths several times already.

The other end of the line is quiet again.

“The last time we spoke in person, you admitted that Memnon moves the bodies,” Kane eventually says.

My stomach drops.

“My pack would like to meet with him so that he might answer for this.”

After the call ends, I sit down on a random patch of grass in front of Henbane’s main buildings, Nero flopping down beside me.

I idly coax a small daisy to grow from the soil. As its stalk rises and a flower unfurls, I sit with my thoughts. Worry, doubt, and dread all knot together.

Memnon?

I feel the brush of Memnon’s pleasure, though beneath it, I sense…strain.

Est amage…your voice is sweeter than wine after conquest. Despite his words, his voice sounds tight, thready.

A light, fluttery feeling blossoms in my stomach. It has no business being there, given the current circumstances.

Did you move another body?

Perhaps … Again, his voice sounds strained.

I frown, and the daisy beneath my palm wilts a little.

Are you okay? I ask.

Is my fiancée worried about my well-being? he teases.

I look skyward even as I suppress a smile. Forget I asked.

Never. I’m collecting your slipups.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone.

Please don’t. I don’t even bother trying to deny that they are in fact slipups.

I feel the brush of his mirth, though there’s still that nagging sensation beneath it.

You’re really okay? I ask.

Again I feel his pleasure. Sweet mate, I’m fine. Were you reaching out just to ask about the body?

The one he all but confirmed he moved.

The shifters want to speak with you about their dead pack mate, I say. And…I told them you would.

Memnon groans.

I draw in a deep breath. We’re meeting Kane and his pack at five o’clock tonight to discuss it.

The moment I mention Kane, there’s a shift in Memnon’s energy.

I’ll pick you up at four thirty in front of your house. I can’t wait to fuck with the wolves.

Memnon.

I’m kidding, Empress. I’ll only fuck with Kane.

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 30

I’ve just sent my mom her daily text and started reading up about contraceptive spells on the steps of the residence hall when Memnon tears through the front gates of Henbane on his motorcycle. Once again he’s not wearing a helmet, and my worry rises.

Ugh, I’m worried about him. I have it bad. And that’s saying nothing about that annoying, happy warmth pooling in my belly at the sight of him.

I tuck my phone away, sparing a glance at Nero, who is busy trying—and failing—to catch a butterfly with his teeth. My familiar has forgotten for a moment that he’s supposed to be a proud, majestic creature.

Memnon pulls into a parking spot near where I parked his car and cuts the engine, grimacing as he swings himself off his seat. As soon as he sees me, his previous expression is wiped clean, and his gaze deepens. I get the distinct impression he’s vividly remembering our night together.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Memnon comes over to me then, his shoulders set a little rigidly, his stride a little stiff. A spark of unease moves through me, even as he takes me by the chin and presses an ardent kiss to my lips.

I guess we’re greeting by way of kissing now.

More warmth pools in my belly. Ugh, but I like that too.

My arms go around him to pull him closer to me when I feel wetness at his back. His shirt is drenched.

“Is this…” I’m about to say sweat when the sorcerer sags a little in my arms.

Seven hells.

“Memnon?” I say, alarmed.

He locks his knees, straightening back up. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”

I move my hand away from his back, sucking in a breath when I see the blood smeared all over it.

“You’re hurt.” I mean for it to be accusing, but my tone comes out soft and concerned. Fuck, I am concerned.

“It is nothing to worry about,” Memnon says as he winces.

“I’ll decide that for myself,” I say, trying to think over the pounding of my heart. “Why didn’t you heal yourself?”

He sways, the movement so subtle I might not have noticed it if he were someone less familiar to me.

“I was ordered not to,” he admits.

So this was some punishment he was supposed to bear out.

My brows draw together. “But you only answer to me,” I say, not following.

He nods in agreement, and now I’m really not following.

“Couldn’t you have healed yourself?” I ask slowly. “Or at least taken away your own pain?”

“I am a Sarmatian king, born to a warrior queen, raised from birth to fight⁠—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry I asked.” Memnon is apparently only practical when it comes to my injuries.

I press a hand lightly to his back and incant in Sarmatian, “Banish the pain to the far corners of the world.”

Thick plumes of my magic spread out beneath my palm, moving across the expanse of his back before sinking in.

Memnon gives me an arch look, like he disapproves of what I’m doing.

“Arguing is useless. I’m not going to let you walk around in pain just because you can bear it.”

Memnon’s bourbon eyes flicker, then soften. He’s a hard man, and I know from memory that he hates being fussed over. I also know nothing leveled him like when I took care of him in the past.

Even now, I can feel a whisper of adoration down our bond.

I look him over again. “I’m not leaving you like this.” I maneuver myself so that I’m wedged under his arm.

“Selene—”

“Arguing really is useless,” I remind him. “If you resist, I’ll simply command you to follow me.”

He huffs but lets me gingerly wrap my arm around his back. With a little help from my magic, I lead Memnon toward my house. Nero reluctantly leaves the butterfly, trailing after us.

Once we’re at the front door, the Medusa door knocker comes to life.

“Memnon the Indomitable, king of nomads, smiter of armies, what business do you have here?”

The knocker’s never done this before. Someone must have refreshed the house’s wards. Sure enough, when I focus on the air above the threshold, I make out the glinting edges of the ward’s magical, silver writing.

“He’s with me.” I grab the handle and shove the door open.

I force the sorcerer through the ward, the spell resisting him for only a moment before it lets him pass. I hold the door open long enough for my shadowy familiar to slip in as well.

The foyer smells like someone’s opened a portal to hell, the smell of sulfur thick in the air.

“Sorry! Sorry!” a witch in the spell kitchen shouts. “I fucked up!”

“Dude, were you trying to summon an imp?” says another witch in the kitchen.

Their conversation drifts away as I drag Memnon to the library on my right. Despite the chatter in the rest of the house, no one is in here at the moment, affording us a sliver of privacy.

The wall sconces buzz and the light flickers precariously as I lead Memnon deep into the room so that we’re hidden by aisles of books. I stop us at a scarlet couch.

“Sit,” I command, “and lean forward.”

My beloved queen, Memnon protests, even as he does what I say, this is not necessary.

“I disagree,” I reply as I follow him down to the couch. My heart has been beating a mile a minute since I discovered his injury. I don’t think I’ll be capable of relaxing until I’m sure he is okay.

Nero sits down next to Memnon’s legs, leaning against them for support. I see my sorcerer place a hand on the panther’s head, and a lump forms in my throat. Nero genuinely cares for Memnon, and Memnon genuinely cares for him.

I force my gaze to return to my mate’s back. My teeth scour my lower lip as I stare at his drenched black shirt. It’s so wet it clings to his back. That’s all blood.

I reach for the hem of it, then hesitate.

I’m…afraid.

“You don’t have to do this,” Memnon says over his shoulder.

“No one is compelling me to do anything,” I say brusquely. “I…want to help.”

I feel a burst of—of love from Memnon’s side of the bond. I don’t let myself linger on it, though I badly want to.

Instead, I draw in a fortifying breath, then grab the hem of his shirt. I peel it slowly away from his skin, hissing in a breath at the sight before me.

Crisscrossing his back are strips of open wounds, the skin split and jagged. There are over a dozen of them, each one oozing blood and a black, oily substance.

Seven hells. The wounds are cursed.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask, trying to understand the extent of the damage.

Already my magic pours out of me, thick clouds of it settling over his injuries. The frayed edges of his skin reach for each other, but the dark magic forces them apart just as quickly.

“Hours,” Memnon says.

“You were commanded not to heal yourself?” I ask, my mind racing to remember the curse-breaking spell Memnon used on me.

He nods reluctantly.

So Patrick, the mage he was supposedly bonded to, must’ve ordered the punishment. But it was an order Memnon didn’t need to follow. The forced bond between him and the mage is entirely fabricated; Memnon has never been under its sway.

I set my remaining questions aside for the moment.

I glance around at the shelves and shelves of books. Any one of them might have instructions on curse breaking. And if I enter the little room at the back of the library, I’ll have access to many, many grimoires that might have the spell I need.

It feels like a waste of time trying to chase the right spell down when the sorcerer here already knows one.

“I need help breaking the curse on my own,” I say softly. “Will you remind me of the incantation you used?” It feels funny to ask for his help when he refused to heal himself.

But he answers readily enough. “Tirub xeqeqoyaq yaqub evritiwuwa yasnnichis, puqamubyaqpi chiqmachibmi.”

I extend my hand over his back, gathering my magic. The buzzing from the sconces grows louder, and the lights flicker more intensely as I recite the curse-breaking spell.

My magic spreads across his back once more, but this time, it doesn’t bother healing the wounds at all. Instead, an alarming amount of the black, tarry substance coating his wounds now oozes from them. The moment it’s expelled from his body, it begins to bubble and hiss away, dissolving into an oily smoke that dissipates into the air.

“What do the words of the spell mean?” I ask softly as my magic works.

“Begone poisoned death that corrupts my spirit. With love I destroy you.”

I muse on that as the last of the dark magic burns away. Once I’m sure the spell is finished, I lick my dry lips, inspecting the wounds. They look clean.

“I think it worked,” I say softly.

“I had no doubt,” Memnon says, still leaning forward and idly petting Nero’s head. My panther closes his eyes, basking in the touch.

“I’m going to finish healing you,” I say, letting my magic spill from me. This doesn’t take an incantation. My power wants to heal him, the soft plumes of it rolling over his back and sinking into his flesh. It begins stitching muscle and skin together, his torn tattoos beginning to reform.

My gaze crawls up his back to what I can see of his profile and his wavy, blood-speckled hair.

I cannot seem to help myself—I reach out and run my fingers through that black hair. Belatedly, I realize this is a caress. I’m caressing this man.

My heart stumbles over itself as Memnon leans into the touch, and I have a moment of déjà vu—we have done this many times before. This is muscle memory as much as anything else, and for some reason, that makes my heart ache all the more.

I withdraw my hand and refocus my attention on his wounds.

How did this happen? I ask down our bond. I don’t dare voice the question out loud while I can still hear my coven sisters in the distance. I can’t forget that here in this house, I’m at least partially among enemies.

Shortly after the murdered shifter was found today, the mage I worked for, Patrick, and his employees were called in before Luca Fortuna. We were all punished for negligence and sloppy work, and Patrick was…disposed of.

So this was retaliation for the bodies in the woods, bodies that Patrick ordered Memnon to move.

From everything Memnon’s told me, it seems blatantly clear that he’s the one staging these victims. It doesn’t seem like it would’ve been hard for Patrick to prove Memnon’s guilt. But the mage didn’t do that. Instead he died, and Memnon was punished alongside his colleagues as though no one knew who the culprit was.

This is a dangerous sort of game Memnon is playing. He’s clearly manipulating many minds to hide what he’s doing. But this is a multimillion-dollar criminal organization he’s messing with. Luck and strategy can only last so long.

Why did you move the body? I ask. It made sense before, when he was framing me. It doesn’t make sense now.

We’re working to bring down the murderers, Memnon reminds me. The killers aren’t just people. They’re a kingdom. A seemingly untouchable one. They’re not so different from Rome, really. The first step in defeating such a kingdom is undermining their power.

You don’t have to put yourself at risk for this—for me. I don’t want that.

Make no mistake, Empress. I enjoy doing this. I feel like the king I once was.

Spoken to me while his back is a mess of injuries and he’s faint from blood loss.

But Memnon could’ve healed himself or else altered minds to prevent his punishment in the first place. He didn’t. I need to remember that.

If Patrick is dead, then why would you still pretend to follow his command? I ask as my eyes linger on his healing injuries. Most of them have closed, the new skin pink.

Juliana Fortuna commanded it. I was forced to bond to her, along with the rest of Patrick’s former bonds.

I go still. From what Memnon previously told me, Juliana is a daughter of Luca Fortuna, the head of Ensanguine Enterprises, a.k.a. the Fortuna crime ring. If this binding was as public as it sounds, then⁠—

Is the bond⁠—

Real? Memnon finishes. Gods, it nearly was, but no. I managed to avoid it. Barely. But Juliana and everyone else there believe it is.

I exhale, my body going slack with my relief.

I’ll meet with her tomorrow, Memnon continues. I still haven’t been able to get close enough to either her or Luca to physically see into their minds, but now that I’m under Juliana’s control, I’ll have more opportunities. Once I’m able to peer at their thoughts, I’ll understand why the murders are happening—and I can then perhaps alter their minds and stop them.

Or he’ll kill them, but he doesn’t say that.

Suddenly, I feel weary. So weary. I should be thrilled. Finally, the pieces are falling into place, and Memnon has all but admitted he might actually be able to stop the murders.

But when I asked for his help, I was fueled by anger and resentment and my own sort of revenge. Now, I can feel two thousand years of fear creeping up my spine.

Memnon, the last time you took on an empire like this, it ended badly for us.

He turns on the couch to look at me fully, and his hand goes to my cheek. This isn’t Rome. It will be different.

I search his eyes. There’s a feeling knotted in my chest, an echo of the pain I felt the night I discovered him in that sarcophagus, hopelessly out of reach.

I can’t lose you again. I’m horrified when I realize I’ve pushed the words down our bond.