Are you sure?
As if to emphasize his point, Memnon’s power pours into me from that magical river. For a moment, I close my eyes, and I feel the alluring lick of it right up against my heart. I press my palm to the place in question; it’s only once my hand comes to rest on Memnon’s that I realize he’s still touching me, and I’m starting to get confused about where he ends and I begin.
“No,” I whisper, the word coming out as a plea.
“Yes, Empress, you are,” he says, his voice gentling. He says it with a surety that sets me on edge.
I’ve spent far too much time fruitlessly convincing him of my own identity. Perhaps it’s time for Memnon to do the convincing.
I lift my chin. “Then tell me about who we were,” I dare him.
Memnon reaches out and strokes my cheek with his knuckles, this softness so at odds with the man I have come to know.
“I was a king, and you were my queen,” he says, his eyes turning soft.
“You don’t look like a king,” I challenge him. He’s too young, too scarred, too handsome, and too well-built.
He narrows his eyes at me but smiles. “Where I’m from, I do.” After a moment, he touches his hair. “Except for this,” he concedes. His hand moves to his smooth chin. “And this.”
As he speaks, my familiar prowls out from the shadows, silently joining my side when it’s far too late for me to need him. I spare the panther an annoyed glance.
“Sarmatian men wear their hair and beards long,” Memnon continues. He flashes me a conspiratorial look. “But you preferred me shorn like a sheep, and I admit, I greatly enjoyed the feel of your pussy against my bare face when I ate you—”
I cover his mouth before he can finish.
“Nope, I don’t want to hear about that,” I say, even as my sex dreams come back to me in all their lurid glory.
Beneath my palm, Memnon grins, and his eyes twinkle with mirth. Gone is the angry monster who stormed my room—
Kane.
Fuck, I need to get back to him.
Even as I think it, I’m not sure how to get out of this situation without drawing Memnon right back to the lycan and further hurting the lycanthrope.
The sorcerer removes my hand from his mouth. “Ask me more, est amage. Let me prove our past to you.”
At least he now seems to believe that whatever past existed for him, I have no memory of it.
I search his gaze, part of me desperate to check on Kane and part of me eager to hear more about this man.
“What land did you and Roxilana rule?” I finally say, edging backward.
“Sarmatia.” That word carries a longing with it. “We were an empire of horse lords and warriors, and we moved along the Pontic steppe, with the migrations of herd animals. Though I overthrew the king of Bosporus so I could settle you in a palace by the sea. The constant traveling was hard on you.”
“I’ve never heard of any of that,” I say. I don’t dare mention that my own magic might’ve expunged the information.
Memnon sighs. “Yes, well, much of the recorded history at the time was written by Romans.” He curls his upper lip as he speaks. “To them, we were nameless barbarians. We existed in their nightmares and on the fringes of their world but not in their self-aggrandizing histories. But we did exist.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, edging back some more. “Just like my childhood existed.”
Memnon narrows his eyes, no doubt understanding what I’m saying perfectly: I’ll believe your word as soon as you believe mine.
Before either of us can say more, I hear a broken voice call out, “Selene!”
Kane.
Dear Goddess, he’s alive. Relief courses through my veins.
I take several steps back, the need to get back to the lycanthrope pressing upon me.
Memnon’s expression grows cold, so cold—his eyes most of all.
He nods in the direction of Kane, and I can feel the waves of menace pouring off him. “Est amage, it is taking everything in me not to kill that wolf where he lies. You touch that boy, and he dies. Slowly. The same threat extends to anyone who thinks to pursue you, little witch. Do you understand?”
I lift my chin, refusing to be cowed by this man. “I’ll do as I fucking please. This isn’t the Dark Ages, Memnon.”
The sorcerer’s eyes burn a little as his power resurfaces with his rising agitation.
“No, this isn’t,” he agrees.
I have to hide my surprise that he understood the reference.
“But I am no modern man,” he continues. “I have killed for far less, and I will happily do so again, where you are concerned.”