Memnon’s eyes drop to one of my reddened cheeks, and he strokes the skin there. “Beautiful, intoxicating witch,” he breathes.
He leans in, almost as though he can’t help it, those tempting lips skimming my skin, daring me to push him away.
I don’t know what spell he’s using, but right in this moment, our insurmountable issues seem to dissolve into nothing. When Memnon is this close to me, it all becomes very simple.
He’s mine.
His lips skim down my jaw. “Something I discovered after I first met you is that if I kiss you right here—” He brushes his lips against the side of my neck, right under my pulse point, and a shiver wracks my body. He smiles against my throat. “You do just that.”
I tilt my head back even as I lean into the kiss, one of my hands moving to his hair. I thread my fingers through his dark locks, wanting to keep him against me. I crave more than his mouth on my throat and our bodies pressed together like this.
I want to push him down and yank open his starched white shirt. I want to hear buttons popping. I want his skin against mine.
I want him to flash me that pirate smile of his while I have my way with him and put an end to this fire he’s lit in me.
He burned your notebooks—your memories. Do not climb the man like a tree. Make him pay.
I nearly gasp at the sobering thought. My fingers loosen from his hair, and I stiffen in his arms—when did his arms snake their way around me?
Fuck, this is exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do tonight.
It takes a ridiculous amount of self-possession, but I manage to bring my palms up to his chest, admiring for a moment that his pecs feel so good. Isn’t that silly, that pecs can feel—？
Fuck, concentrate, Selene.
Roughly, I push Memnon away, adding a little magic into the action to move his massive body.
The sorcerer staggers back, his expression lust drunk as his eyes move to my lips.
“You destroyed my journals and the years of memories in them,” I remind us both.
Some of the haze fades from Memnon’s face.
“Is this your attempt at making me feel regret?” he says, wiping his lip with his thumb. “Guilt? Shame?” His hand drops, and his features grow serious. “Because, my queen, this is absolutely what victory feels like.”
“Victory Over what? Our highly dysfunctional relationship?”
Memnon smiles down at me. “I have anticipated this evening for a long, long time.”
My brows draw together, even as unease coils in my belly. “What are you talking about?”
“What do you think I’ve done with all the time we’ve been apart?” he asks, tilting his head.
I never knew.
He shakes his head slowly. “There is so much you don’t know about who I am.” Memnon steps in close. “Like you, est amage, it is not in my nature to grovel. I am in the business of power.” He puts a finger beneath my chin and tilts my head up. “And you, my love, are wholly unready for it.”
I search his eyes. This is where I need to pull away. Or attack. But he has me bewitched, both by his look and his touch.
“Even as a king, I would ride into battle with my horde.” His voice grows soft, intimate, and he’s switched to speaking Sarmatian. “But sometimes, when I faced a particularly obstinate foe, or one I wanted to make an example of, I would leave my warriors a ways away from the battlefield, and I would ride in alone.” As he speaks, the lanterns above us dim, as though shrinking from whatever ominous story Memnon is set on telling me.
“Do you know why I would face my worst opponents alone?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I say softly.
He flashes me a whisper of a smile, though it holds no actual humor.
“Sorcerers have vast amounts of power, but when used in such large quantities, our magic can grow a bit…feral.”
I think he’s about to tell me the story of how he lost his conscience to his power.
Instead, he says, “The stronger the magic we cast, the less we can control who that magic touches. Friends—and family—are always in danger when we let it loose.” He pauses to let that sink in. “So I would face my enemies alone, and the fearsome, obstinate rulers I faced would see firsthand the sort of destruction I could wreak.”
I feel myself growing cold, terrified by what he’s insinuating.
“Fields would be strewn with entire armies, and I would sit there on my steed, untouched.”
In my mind’s eye, I can see fields of corpses and blood-spattered wheat and Memnon in his scale armor sitting astride his horse. I can practically taste his ominous, overpowering magic thickening in the air.