Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)(80)

Memnon must see it in my eyes.

“Don’t ask me for things you do not mean,” he warns me again.

I do mean what I’m thinking. That’s the real problem. My intuition is telling me that this violent, wicked man is safe, and I’m too tired to disagree.

“Stay with me,” I say, tugging him closer.

Memnon takes the hand holding his wrist into his own hands, and he presses a kiss to my knuckles, closing his eyes. He looks like he’s fighting himself on something, though I cannot say what.

After a moment, he lays my hand on the bed, then presses his palm to my head.

“Sleep,” he says.

I feel the gentle brush of Memnon’s magic and then nothing else.





CHAPTER 30





I blink my eyes open as late-morning sunlight streams into my room. I hear the distant sound of my coven sisters chatting down the hall and in the communal bathroom as they get ready for class.

I stretch, feeling Nero at my back. That’s when the pain awakens.

I groan.

Everything hurts. My arms and back and legs ache from the strain of carrying the shifter girl so far. My muscles are overtaxed, but that is nothing compared to the stabbing pain in my head and the nausea rolling through my stomach.

I overused my magic. And then I overused Memnon’s magic.

I let out another pained sound. At my back, Nero moves, and the arm that’s draped over my waist migrates to my forehead.

Wait. Arm?

I’m drawn back against a broad hard chest, and that hand turns my head so a set of lips can brush a kiss against my temple.

“Ease the pain. Remove the ache,” Memnon murmurs against my skin.

I suck in a breath at his voice. He stayed with me—I asked him to…

Last night comes back to me, even as my migraine and the rest of my bodily pains disappear.

Goddess, last night. Despite the massive amounts of memory I must’ve burned through, last night comes back to me in full detail—the spell circle, the chase, the witches I fought and the monster I shattered, the brief interaction with a man from the Marin Pack, and then Memnon.

Memnon.

Memnon carrying me. Memnon caring for me.

The whole night takes my breath away, but this last part most of all. He’s supposed to be my enemy, but nothing about last night fit that narrative. He gave me his magic, then came for me and healed me. And I kissed him. And now he’s in my bed.

Just as I think it, his fingers run through my hair. There’s something so intimate about the gesture. The fact there’s no sexual angle to it confuses me more. I’ve dabbled in physical intimacy with men, but I’m not used to…this. Intimacy without some sexual motivation.

Maybe that’s why I melt under the touch. Apparently, I really like this sort of intimacy. And irony of all ironies, it’s waking my body in an entirely different way.

“I’ve got you, est amage,” he breathes, still stroking my hair, clearly unaware that my mind is in the gutter.

I flip around, wincing a little as I feel the faintest twinge through my various muscles.

My eyes meet his. His hair is mussed from sleep. It’s disarming, and it makes him look a smidge less intimidating.

But just a smidge.

Memnon lost his shirt somewhere between last night and this morning, and from this close, I can say with absolute authority that his body is a masterpiece, coiled muscles stacked on coiled muscles. The tattoos and scars only serve to make it look that much more lethal and appealing.

I force my gaze up to his.

“You stayed,” I say.

He runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, and the action is so goddess-damned sexy. He is so goddess-damned sexy.

“Of course I stayed,” he says, as though there was never another option. My blood heats at the fervency in his voice.

I want to touch him. Everything in me wants to touch and feel and mark and claim this man who looks like my own personal wet dream. Before I can act on any of these fantasies, the arm around my waist drags me forward, and then his mouth is on mine.

Memnon’s kisses, I’m coming to discover, are just as intense as every other part of him. His mouth moves over mine almost frantically. He kisses me like he may lose me at any moment.

“Little witch,” he says against my lips, “you cannot look at me like that and expect me to keep my mouth to myself.” The sentiment is punctuated by another devastating sweep of his mouth.

I eagerly meet each stroke of his lips with my own.

“You taste so fucking good, mate,” he says. “And you feel real like nothing else has since I woke.” He gathers me closer—

Off to the side of the bed, my phone buzzes, interrupting the moment. I bite back several colorful curses as I pull away.

Reluctantly, Memnon lets me go, but the look in his eyes makes it clear that he’s not done with me.

I trip out of bed, belatedly aware that I’m still only in a bra and undies and Memnon is getting an eyeful. I reach for last night’s bloody, shredded pants, where the sound of my phone is coming from. It’s only as I’m digging the phone out of my jeans that I realize I had it with me the entire time last night. Not that I had a spare moment to place a call between the witches and the clay creature.

“Hello?” I say, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Selene Bowers?” the voice on the other end says.