Memnon murmurs something under his breath, and I feel the tingling brush of his power against my side.
I grimace as, under his touch, my flesh repairs itself. It’s not painful, but it doesn’t feel good either. I try to wiggle away from it, but Memnon’s other hand braces my torso, holding me in place with a casual sort of familiarity. That too has my pulse picking up, and my brows come together.
“Good woman,” he praises, his eyes on my wound. “You’re taking it so well. So well.”
He’s talking about his healing magic, of course, but that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m half dead and tired beyond measure, yet somehow my enemy is making me think about screwing his brains out.
What is wrong with me?
My injury finishes stitching itself back together, saving me from my own thoughts.
Memnon removes his hand, which is still smeared with my blood, and rises to his feet.
Before I can ask him what he’s doing, he lifts my legs so he can sit where they rested on my bed. Then he places them both in his lap.
Softly, he strokes my legs. Again he murmurs a healing spell beneath his breath.
His magic sweeps over my legs, burrowing into the open wounds of my feet and my calf. The sensation is warm and itchy and uncomfortable. But Memnon keeps stroking my legs, and his hands feel so good.
“Tonight, I intend to heal you, Empress,” he says, his attention fixed to my feet. “But tomorrow, I want answers.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Why do you have to make that sound so ominous?” I say as the last of the wounds on my legs and feet seal up.
“Because,” Memnon says, lifting my feet so he can stand once more, “I am ominous. And I do want answers.” Memnon kneels next to me, his face tantalizingly close. “And you will give them to me, est amage.”
This close to him, I can see the thick sweep of his eyelashes and those complex brown eyes that seem to glitter. I can even see that wicked scar that trails along the side of his face. He looks like some lost relic.
I lift my chin obstinately at his words, but instead of replying, I reach out and touch his scar. I don’t know what possesses me to do such a thing.
Memnon goes still, letting me explore his face. I trail my finger over the line of the scar, following its brutal path along his face. It’s a wicked one.
“How did you get this?” I ask.
His brows come together. “I already told you, Selene.”
He has?
“Tell me again,” I say, continuing to feel my way along the scar’s path.
He frowns but answers, “My people were expanding their territory into Dacian land. Their king didn’t take that too kindly. He met us in battle and gave me this to remember him by.”
My eyes widen at that. “It looks like he nearly took your face off.”
“He tried to,” Memnon agrees.
I can feel my own horror at the thought that someone would try to take another still-living human’s face off.
The sorcerer’s eyes twinkle, and his lips curve up playfully. “Just when I assumed you could not get any more innocent, you go and hide yourself in a future that is even more…civilized than the Roman one you were raised in.”
“What happened to the king who did this to you?”
“I ran him through with my sword. And then I made his skull into a wine chalice.”
What?
“You’re lying,” I say.
“I’m not. It was one of my favorites.” He says it so calmly that fuck, if that’s true…
I shrink away from him.
Memnon frowns at my reaction. “It was the custom of our warriors to do such things. Just as it was custom that every Sarmatian woman ride into battle and kill at least one enemy before she was allowed to marry.”
What?
He stares at my shocked expression, something sad entering his eyes. “You had the same reactions the first time you learned these things. It is both a wonder and a heartbreak to see it all over again.”
I clear my throat. “I’m still trying to get over the fact you drank wine from the skulls of your enemies.” Not sure I’m ever going to get over that fact.
Memnon gives me a tight smile; then his eyes drop to my body, his gaze lingering on my ravaged shoulder. “I need to finish healing you, Empress. I’m going to have to roll you onto your stomach.”
I start to flip myself over, but then his hands are there, guiding me so I don’t jostle my injuries.
Gently, he removes the last of my shredded clothing still clinging to my back. Once the cool air kisses my skin, Memnon inhales sharply, presumably at the sight of my injuries.
“To think you never once believed yourself a true warrior-queen,” he mutters under his breath. I’m pretty sure the reference applies to Roxilana, not me. “You carry battle wounds that would make the fiercest of my fighters proud.”
“It’s that bad?” Memnon’s earlier spell is still blocking me from feeling pain.
The sorcerer runs a light hand around the injuries, and I close my eyes at the touch. It still feels unnervingly good.
“Heal these wounds,” he murmurs in Sarmatian. “Mend the flesh. Remake it as it was.”
His magic feels like a warm breath against my back. And then that warmth seeps into my skin, turning uncomfortable—almost itchy—and I know even without looking that the flesh is reforming, the wounds healing.
I lie there confused about how the evening went from me attending a spell circle for a little extra cash to being nearly killed by bloodthirsty witches and now being healed by my mortal enemy.
The warm press of magic fades, and Memnon smooths his hand down my back. I exhale at the sensation of his palm against my skin. There’s just something about the feel of his hands—hands that have led armies and killed and lifted chalices made from his foes’ skulls—that’s so damn intoxicating.
Pretty sure enjoying this makes me a rotten human. Oh well, maybe I’ll care tomorrow.
Memnon pauses, as though he senses my thoughts.
“Est amage,” he murmurs, “do you like that? I will keep touching you if you do. All you have to say is the word, and it is yours.”
Shit, maybe he does know my thoughts.
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my nose. I sense that everything with this man comes at a price. He’s not naming it, but it must be there.
But given all that’s happened tonight…screw it.
“I like it,” I admit.
His hand doesn’t move. Why is his hand not moving? I wiggle a little, trying to get it going.
“Let me see your face,” he demands.
I turn to look at him. “Why?”
His eyes gaze at me intensely. “Because you are the only thing worth looking at, and my eyes have missed you.”
I frown. “I thought you hated me.”
He leans forward and runs a knuckle down my spine, and I feel myself arch, stretching like a cat against his touch. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Empress.”
I understand what he means. I want to hate this man’s guts—I know I should—but I don’t.
“Close your eyes and relax, and I will touch you,” he says.