“Yeah.” The word comes out like a croak, so I clear my throat and try again. “I would like to speak to the wolves.”
“Very well. I will let them know, and they will contact you. You are to continue to attend classes as usual. You will be watched. I hope that the next time we meet, circumstances will be different. That is all.”
CHAPTER 37
When I enter my room, Memnon is already there, sprawled on my computer chair, wearing a shirt with some name-brand bourbon and too many rings to count, all while flipping through one of my notebooks.
I freeze.
“What are you doing here?” I say a little breathlessly. My stomach does a happy little flip at the sight of him, and I remember all over again just what the two of us did in this room less than a week ago.
The sorcerer glances up from my notebook, and his mouth curves into a sly, knowing smile. “I’m happy to see you too, est amage. Or would you prefer I called you mate?”
I release a shaky breath. He’s clearly already enjoying the hell out of my earlier admission. And I find I want to argue with him, even though I already conceded this point.
Nero pushes past me to rub against the sorcerer’s leg.
Memnon reaches down and gives my familiar a pet. “You asked to speak with me today,” he reminds me. “So here I am.”
Right. Right.
I close my door, then turn to face him once more. My heart beats fast as I take him in, from the top of his wavy hair to the bottom of his shit-kicking boots. Every line of him is violent and beautiful and intimidating and overbearing.
I’m bonded to that.
“Little witch,” Memnon says softly, and his eyes have gentled. “You don’t need to look so frightened.”
I exhale. He’s right. This is all going to be fi—
“I promise I only bite when you ask me to,” he adds.
A small semihysterical sound slips from my lips, and I take a step back.
I’m not ready for this conversation. I thought I might be, but I think I need more time.
Memnon puts up a hand. “Wait, Selene, fight me, curse me—well, maybe not that one—just please don’t run.”
I hesitate, unused to this side of Memnon. He’s being raw and vulnerable with me. I drop my book bag then and scrub my face with my hands.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what, Amage?”
I drop my hands and look at him. “Be a soul mate. Come to terms with the fact you’re it for me.”
Memnon sets my notebook aside. “You say that like this is a burden.” He shakes his head and stands, closing in on me. “This is what men kill and die for. What no amount of wealth can buy. Love. One that could set whole nations on fire.” He takes my chin then, giving me a look that’s as close to adoration as one can get. “You cannot fathom it, little witch, only because you cannot remember that you once had it. But I remember.”
This close to me, Memnon is hypnotic, compelling.
“It didn’t end well for you though,” I say.
“End…” he muses, dragging the word out on his lips. “An era ended. We did not.”
He’s looking at my lips now, and an ache starts up within me, one that only he can soothe.
“You threatened me,” I say. “And I know you must still be angry with me.”
“Oh, I am,” he agrees. “But I grow eager for my vengeance to be sated and for this era to end too. You and I, Empress, we are eternal.”
My magic is seeping out from my skin, as is his. The two twist and cur around us, the colors blending until a dusky purple remains.
I want to kiss him again—hell, I always want to kiss the man—but this feels too much like throwing myself off a cliff. I don’t know where I’m going to land or if I’m going to like it at all.
I pull away from Memnon, forcing my magic back inside me.
Memnon’s gaze moves over me, and he looks a little sad, but there’s also a lot of understanding in his eyes. “I keep forgetting how skittish you are in the beginning,” he murmurs.
My brows draw together.
“When I found you in Rome,” he continues, “you were nervous around me too. But that changed, and it will again. Once you remember.”
“Remember?” I echo.
“Our past,” he says, backing away from me.
You give an ancient sorcerer a single crumb of hope, and he starts asking for the whole damn feast.
“That’s not possible,” I say.
“It’s not possible?” he repeats, lifting his brows. “If it weren’t possible, you wouldn’t be able to speak Latin or Sarmatian. You wouldn’t be able to read Greek or Aramaic or Demotic.”