My heart aches at what he’s saying.
Assuming I am, by some strange magic and twist of fate, this Roxilana, then—
“Have you ever considered that I may better off not knowing the past?” I ask. “Perhaps some things are best left buried.”
Memnon holds my gaze, his own still glowing with his power. “I told you, Selene. Whatever made you curse me, we can work it out. We will work it out.”
I shake my head. “You say that like I’ve agreed to any of this.”
“You are under a curse, mate. One made by your own hand. Of course we will remove it—for my sake and yours. And then you will get your memories back, and we can resolve whatever came between us.”
I feel my ire stir, and for some reason, tears prick at my eyes. Why must everything come back to my memory loss? Why must others think fixing it is what I want most? Or that the loss of my memories is the sum of my identity? Why must they make me feel as though I am not enough as I am? Why can’t they see that my ambition, my heart, my fucking optimism—all the best parts of me—have been borne and shaped by my memory loss?
And I know Memnon doesn’t exactly hold those views—he’s made it clear he’s really only interested in the memories from our deep past—but he’s still willing to cleave away this part of me.
The truth is that I have never been more powerful than I am now. I am kinder, cleverer, and more authentic because of my memory loss. Not despite it.
I stare at Memnon for a long time.
“No,” I finally say.
Goddess, but that felt good. Cathartic, even.
He raises an eyebrow, watching me carefully with those simmering eyes of his.
I don’t bend.
I am a witch, descended from a line of witches who were persecuted for things others couldn’t understand. I am their legacy, and I will make them proud.
“No,” I say again, louder this time. “I don’t want my memories—I don’t want any of it.”
Memnon narrows his eyes. “You misunderstand, est amage. I’m not here to bargain with you. I’m not even here to demand something of you. Not yet.”
Memnon sets my notebook atop the other one already on my desk; then he straightens. At his full height, he dwarfs me and the rest of the room.
He steps up to me and takes my chin, tilting it toward him. His eyes have stopped glowing, but they are no less intense when he leans forward and kisses me, the action unspeakably gentle.
When he pulls away, there’s something like regret in his eyes. “How intriguing you are like this. There is something disarming and downright appealing to this side of you. But you are as much a panther as I am. It is time you remembered.”
My own power sparks to life at those last words. “Memnon,” I say in warning, “don’t make me your enemy in earnest.”
“Oh, it is too late for that, little witch. Much too late.” He leans in again and whispers, “I still have not had my vengeance. Not until now.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, not until the two notebooks on my desk lift into the air, his indigo magic twisting around them. Then I start to have an idea.
“I think it is poetically fitting that you be lost in this world,” he continues, “just as I have been lost.”
“Memnon,” I caution him.
“Gods, but how I have always enjoyed it when you turn my name into a threat,” he says. “But I don’t want your anger right now, Empress. I want your panic and your desperation. I want you to come groveling back to me. I want you to need me the way I have always needed you.” He backs up as he speaks.
“Memnon,” I say again, “give me back my notebooks.” I feel my own magic stirring to life.
“Maybe if you beg for mercy nicely,” he says, “I’ll spare you the worst of my wrath.”
“You motherfucker.”
“That’s not begging nicely,” he says, grinning, like this is all fun for him. Seven hells, I’m sure it is. Memnon is one part violence and one part vengeance. “Try again.”
“Memnon, I swear to the goddess—”
My two notebooks go up in flames. Right in the middle of my sentence, as the sorcerer’s eyes brighten with devilish delight, my notebooks go up in flames.
I suck in a breath.
My memories.
My magic lashes out of me, winding around the journals, desperate to smother the flames. I yank on my power, trying to bring them to the ground, but they continue to hover in midair, burning.
“Memnon!” I practically cry, scrambling onto my desk so I can try to snatch them out of the air myself. “I depend on those.”