Memnon watches me with unnerving intensity as I come over to him, album in hand.
A strange tugging sensation rises in my chest as I draw close. I force myself to ignore every last little thing about him because I want to dwell on it all—the burnished bronze of his skin, the twisting form of his tattoos, the rippling bands of his muscles.
I hand the photo album over to him. “Here’s your proof.”
Memnon scowls at the book in his hands, his narrowed gaze flicking from it to me, as though this is some sort of elaborate hoax.
Reluctantly, he opens it.
He grows almost preternaturally quiet. Drawn in by his reaction—hell, drawn in by him—I move to his side, peeking over his shoulder at the images. This album starts on my eighth birthday. There are pictures of me, my friends, the bounce house we rented out in what must be our backyard.
I’m blowing out candles, opening presents, making funny faces with my friends. My hair is wild, my incisors are only partially grown in, and I have a scattering of freckles across my nose that have since disappeared.
I don’t remember that day, nor the house. But one of my friends—Em…Emily. Yes, I remember her.
As Memnon flips through the pages, he reaches out one of his hands and absently strokes my arm with his knuckles.
My breath escapes me as I look down at that contact—contact the sorcerer doesn’t even seem to notice. I should move my arm. A sane person would.
Instead, I let my would-be husband caress me.
His touch is so soft and so at odds with every violent aspect of him. His hand only moves away to trace the shape of my face in a close-up—this one of me at a family wedding a year or two later. I vaguely remember that event.
One of Memnon’s legs jiggles, and the more pages he turns, the more agitatedly his leg moves.
All at once, he tosses the album aside.
“No,” he says. “No.” He stands, running his fingers through his hair. My deviant little eyes notice how his shirt clings to his torso with the action.
“If you are not my Roxi, then who are you?” he says, his eyes desolate.
Oh, this one I got. “I am Selene Bowers. My parents are Olivia and Benjamin Bowers. I was born on—”
He’s shaking his head, pinching his eyes shut. “No, no, no. I don’t believe it. I won’t.”
“The woman who betrayed you is gone. I’m someone else. I was born twenty years ago. What other proof do you need?”
His eyes open, and he looks me over, his attention settling on my upper chest.
“Your skin—I would like to see it, est amage.”
I frown at him. “I’m not getting naked.”
“Not today, no,” he agrees.
His answer makes my breath catch, and his words pluck at my magic like a strummed chord.
Memnon rises from my chair before approaching me slowly, like I might take off at any moment. “You have tattoos.”
A strange hum starts up between us, a hum that’s not really a hum at all. I think it has to do with our magic, but I feel it moving along my arms and spine, and it’s making my heart flutter.
“Roxilana had tattoos,” I correct. I have none. But now my interest is piqued.
Memnon comes up to me and gestures for my arm.
Oh, now he asks for permission before he manhandles me?
I move my arm into his reach. Slowly, as though not to scare me off, Memnon takes my forearm, and with his other hand, he lifts the fluttery sleeve of my dress, revealing my upper arm and shoulder.
I hear his exhale, and my gaze flicks to his face.
He looks…disbelieving.
One of Memnon’s fingers comes up, tracing phantom lines on my arm.
“You had a panther tattooed right here,” he says, his voice flat, controlled. “And beneath it, a slain deer.”
Sounds cute.
Memnon’s hand moves from my shoulder and settles on my chest, right over my heart. It’s an intimate touch, even though it’s only inches away from where it was.
Logic is telling me to knock the sorcerer’s hand away. Instinct is telling me to press my hand over his and anchor him to me. So I compromise and do nothing.
“You had my mark right here,” he says softly.
For a second, I think Memnon means to move the neckline of my dress aside. Instead, he reaches for his own shirt before pulling it off in one smooth stroke.
Nobody said you could get undressed in my room.
My protest dies in my throat as soon as my eyes land on his exposed torso. I swallow at the sight of his packed muscles, but it’s impossible to notice his muscles without noticing his tattoos as well. Memnon is covered in them—a deer whose horns sprout flowers, a trampled griffin, a snarling panther who seems to be clawing up Memnon’s neck. And right over the sorcerer’s heart—a winged dragon.