Memnon reaches for the blankets beneath me and tugs them out from under my body.
I catch his wrist. “Where are you going?” I hate that I sound desperate. I hate that this man has gone from my stalker to my savior. But the truth is this house doesn’t feel safe—not since I realized there’s a persecution tunnel that opens directly into this building.
Memnon’s expression turns fierce, even while his eyes soften. “Nowhere,” he vows. “I will stay here, in this room, watching over you and keeping you safe until you wake.”
I don’t let go of his wrist. I want him in this bed next to me. I’m positive that’s the only way I’m going to sleep at all, despite my exhaustion.
Memnon must see it in my eyes.
“Don’t ask me for things you do not mean,” he warns me again.
I do mean what I’m thinking. That’s the real problem. My intuition is telling me that this violent, wicked man is safe, and I’m too tired to disagree.
“Stay with me,” I say, tugging him closer.
Memnon takes the hand holding his wrist into his own hands, and he presses a kiss to my knuckles, closing his eyes. He looks like he’s fighting himself on something, though I cannot say what.
After a moment, he lays my hand on the bed, then presses his palm to my head.
“Sleep,” he says.
I feel the gentle brush of Memnon’s magic and then nothing else.
CHAPTER 30
I blink my eyes open as late-morning sunlight streams into my room. I hear the distant sound of my coven sisters chatting down the hall and in the communal bathroom as they get ready for class.
I stretch, feeling Nero at my back. That’s when the pain awakens.
I groan.
Everything hurts. My arms and back and legs ache from the strain of carrying the shifter girl so far. My muscles are overtaxed, but that is nothing compared to the stabbing pain in my head and the nausea rolling through my stomach.
I overused my magic. And then I overused Memnon’s magic.
I let out another pained sound. At my back, Nero moves, and the arm that’s draped over my waist migrates to my forehead.
Wait. Arm?
I’m drawn back against a broad hard chest, and that hand turns my head so a set of lips can brush a kiss against my temple.
“Ease the pain. Remove the ache,” Memnon murmurs against my skin.
I suck in a breath at his voice. He stayed with me—I asked him to…
Last night comes back to me, even as my migraine and the rest of my bodily pains disappear.
Goddess, last night. Despite the massive amounts of memory I must’ve burned through, last night comes back to me in full detail—the spell circle, the chase, the witches I fought and the monster I shattered, the brief interaction with a man from the Marin Pack, and then Memnon.
Memnon.
Memnon carrying me. Memnon caring for me.
The whole night takes my breath away, but this last part most of all. He’s supposed to be my enemy, but nothing about last night fit that narrative. He gave me his magic, then came for me and healed me. And I kissed him. And now he’s in my bed.
Just as I think it, his fingers run through my hair. There’s something so intimate about the gesture. The fact there’s no sexual angle to it confuses me more. I’ve dabbled in physical intimacy with men, but I’m not used to…this. Intimacy without some sexual motivation.
Maybe that’s why I melt under the touch. Apparently, I really like this sort of intimacy. And irony of all ironies, it’s waking my body in an entirely different way.
“I’ve got you, est amage,” he breathes, still stroking my hair, clearly unaware that my mind is in the gutter.
I flip around, wincing a little as I feel the faintest twinge through my various muscles.
My eyes meet his. His hair is mussed from sleep. It’s disarming, and it makes him look a smidge less intimidating.
But just a smidge.
Memnon lost his shirt somewhere between last night and this morning, and from this close, I can say with absolute authority that his body is a masterpiece, coiled muscles stacked on coiled muscles. The tattoos and scars only serve to make it look that much more lethal and appealing.
I force my gaze up to his.
“You stayed,” I say.
He runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, and the action is so goddess-damned sexy. He is so goddess-damned sexy.
“Of course I stayed,” he says, as though there was never another option. My blood heats at the fervency in his voice.
I want to touch him. Everything in me wants to touch and feel and mark and claim this man who looks like my own personal wet dream. Before I can act on any of these fantasies, the arm around my waist drags me forward, and then his mouth is on mine.