When I walk into my room, the lights are on, music is blaring from my speakers, and there’s an overgrown man sitting in my computer chair, his muscled arms and tattoos on display below the sleeves of his fitted T-shirt. In front of him is one of my social media pages. It’s open to a photo of me and Sybil wearing onesies and holding red Solo cups. I’m sticking out my tongue and making the peace sign with my fingers, while she’s blowing a kiss.
It’s…not my best moment. Not that I remember that particular evening.
My gaze slides back from the photo to Memnon. “What the fuck?” I say.
I raise my hand, readying my magic, angry rather than scared.
Memnon leans back in my computer chair, snaps his fingers, and poof, everything goes silent.
“Fascinating world you live in,” he responds—in English. He has a subtle foreign accent, so the words come out guttural and rolling.
His eyes drift over me, taking in the short wrap dress I wore to class. His gaze grows heated.
I angrily toss my bag onto my bed, my pulse rate climbing. “What are you doing in here?” I demand.
Memnon threads his hands behind his head, leaning back in my seat. “I’m seeing where my scheming wife lives,” he says, still speaking in English. He glances around him. “Your room is smaller than even our wagon was.” His eyes move over the sticky notes that cover the room. “I see you haven’t lost your love of writing.”
“You can’t just…come in here whenever you please,” I say, alarmed by the fact he already has.
Not even going to ask about how he knew which room was mine.
Memnon narrows his eyes at me, all while wearing this insufferable little smirk that makes me feel warm in all the wrong places.
Why must I have this reaction to him? He’s obviously evil, and the scar and the power he oozes are really driving that home. My body simply isn’t catching up to my mind.
“Does that bother you, est amage?” My queen. Those two words are the only he’s uttered so far in his old tongue.
Of course it bothers me. He made himself my enemy.
He also might have murdered two witches.
And once again, I’m trapped in a small room with him.
“Last time I saw you, I banished you,” I state.
Memnon drops his hands from behind his head to the chair’s armrests. “Yes, well, your magic likes me too much to keep me out for long.”
I frown at him, remembering how his spells melted away once my magic touched them. The thought that our powers like each other is perhaps the most unsettling thing I’ve heard all day.
“You need to leave,” I say.
“I’ll go when I’m ready.”
I want to scream. “I swear to the goddess I will banish you again if you don’t leave.”
He grins again, and maybe it’s the way it tugs at his scar, or maybe it’s how it displays his sharp canines, but I shiver at how nefarious that smile is. Nefarious and absurdly sexy.
I get hot and flustered at the sight of it.
Memnon lifts his chin. “Try it, little witch.”
I stare at him for a long moment. There’s a wild look in his eyes; he’s watching me like a snake about to strike.
A banishment spell might be a very, very bad idea.
I’ll need to get him out some other way. But first—
My eyes flick to my social media page, where the picture of me and Sybil is still taking up most of the screen.
I cross over to my desk before leaning over Memnon so I can exit out of the page.
Memnon bends forward, skimming his lips against my hair.
I freeze at the contact.
“You came and woke me”—he almost purrs it, his voice is so soft—“and now you continue just existing as though nothing has changed.”
I swallow, trying to control the way my body trembles at his nearness. My dreams come back to me then, and I vividly remember how it felt to have him close.
I shut my laptop screen and back away from the desk.
Memnon catches my wrist. “Roxilana, tell me why,” he beseeches.
For once, this terrifying supernatural is unguarded, and there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me, something beyond heat and anger.
“My name is Selene,” I remind him.
“You can lie to everyone else, but not to me,” he says.
He really thinks this is some elaborate charade this woman, Roxilana, has been keeping up.
No wonder he’s confused.
“I’m not her,” I insist.
He stands slowly from his seat, and I’m reminded all over again of just how large this man is. I have to tilt my head back to look at him. It doesn’t help that every inch of him seems to be made of heavy corded muscle.
Memnon reaches out, and I shrink away. He scowls when he sees my reaction, but that doesn’t stop him from cupping my cheeks and tilting my head up.
One of his thumbs strokes my cheek. “You have my Roxi’s same blue eyes, down to the white line that rings the inside of them.” He tilts my face to the side, moving one of his hands to touch something near my ear. “You have the same two freckles she had right here.” As Memnon speaks, his eyes soften.
His hand moves to my hair, and it’s as though he’s forgotten himself and his vendetta for a moment. His touch is almost reverent as he runs his fingers along the strands. I find myself mesmerized by it.
“And this hair,” he says, “is the same cinnamon color my Roxi’s was.” He drops my hair then, his other hand still cupping my face. “You have a birthmark on the back of your left thigh, and your second toes are longer than your big ones. Shall I go on?”
I stare at him like I’ve seen a ghost. “H-how do you know those things about me?” I say.
His brows come together in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I know those things? I have spent years mapping you out—as you have me.”
What?
Almost instinctively, my gaze moves to that scar of his. Memnon has many distinct features, but that scar is perhaps the most prominent of them.
Seeing where my attention is drawn, he says softly, “You can touch it, est amage.”
I shouldn’t.
It feels at best like a bad idea and at worst, a trap. That doesn’t stop me from stepping into Memnon’s space and reaching out a tentative hand. The moment my fingers touch the puckered skin of his scar, his eyes close and his nostrils flare.
Memnon stands as still as stone while I draw my fingers along the path of it, moving first to his ear, then down toward his chin.
“This looks like it hurt,” I murmur.
He makes a noncommittal sound. Because of course it hurt. It must’ve been awful.
I get to the end of the scar, and reluctantly, I let my hand drop.
When Memnon opens his eyes again, I don’t see any trace of his anger. Instead, there’s longing so deep, it makes my stomach flip.
“Wife,” he breathes, his eyes moving to my lips.
I swallow, my own gaze going to his mouth. I want to kiss him again, just to taste his yearning. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me that way.
But I’m not his wife. Whatever wonderful, tragic love story he had, it wasn’t with me.
I place a hand to my temple, trying to clear away my own desire. “How do you know English?” I say distractedly, just to get my mind off kissing him.
“You know my power,” he says, almost obstinately, as though he thinks I’m still lying. “You know I can pull what I want from the minds of others, including language.”
My eyes widen.
He can do what now?
Memnon tilts his head. “Why are you still pretending with me, Empress?” he asks, some of that earlier anger seeping back into his eyes.