“Even after enduring your betrayal and your desertion, est amage, I would never dare to break what is ours and ours alone!” His voice rises until he is bellowing the words.
“Maybe if you had spent the past several weeks trying to be my friend instead of making my life miserable, I wouldn’t be attempting to break our bond.”
His expression flickers, like he may feel regret or shame, but I’m not done.
“I swear to the goddess,” I continue, “the moment you leave my sight, I will start the process all over again.”
It seems like Memnon grows taller, wider. He steps between my legs, looking menacing, lethal.
“No,” he says softly, “you won’t.” The sorcerer places his hands on either side of my head, his eyes flinty.
I jerk against his touch. “Let me go.”
“Your mind isn’t the only one that can steal memories,” he says, those smoky eyes piercing.
I go still at what he’s hinting at. “You wouldn’t,” I breathe.
He smiles. “Of course I would. I already have.”
“You’ve taken my memories?” My voice is unnaturally quiet as I speak. Dark, roiling fury builds beneath my veins.
“Your heart isn’t the only thing I own.” It’s as much a confession as anything else.
I don’t think—I launch myself at him. Memnon’s magic still holds my legs fast to the table, but I manage to claw at his eyes and tear that self-satisfied smirk from his face.
“Fuck,” he curses in Sarmatian, staggering out of my reach. Then he laughs. Laughs!
“Ah, est amage, I’ve missed your fiery side,” he says, stepping back into my space and catching one of my wrists.
“I will gut you for taking my memories, you asshole!” I manage to drag my nails down the other side of Memnon’s face before he’s able to capture my other wrist.
He grins wickedly. “I thought you didn’t mind losing them? You fought for your curse so passionately a week ago.”
“You had no right to take them,” I say vehemently.
Memnon ignores my words, his gaze moving to the open grimoire next to me. “Ah, is this the hateful spell?” He moves my wrists into one of his hands so he can place his palm on the book.
Beneath his hand, the page curls and blackens, and a wisp of smoke rises from the book.
I jerk fruitlessly against his grip, my mood darkening with every passing second. This spell was supposed to placate my rage, not enflame it. But it’s as though I’m reliving the book burning in my room all over again.
“You think you can break our bond and dispose of me as you did two thousand years ago?”
I sense his own rage rising, and his eyes illuminate with his power. I’m reminded all over again that a sorcerer’s magic draws from their conscience; as they grow stronger, their empathy grows weaker. I’m sensing that Memnon lost most of his back in antiquity.
“You will never be free of me, little witch. Never.”
I stare at the magic sparking in his eyes. I’m coming to find that there is nothing nearly so dangerous as a wronged sorcerer.
Memnon’s hand comes up, wrapping around my throat in the most featherlight grip. But between his spell nailing me to the table, his body pinning me in, and now his hand on my neck, I am completely immobilized.
“But you are right, I have given you more misery than passion. Perhaps it is time I reminded you of what it means to be with me.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Wait, what?
Before that thought has more than crossed my mind, Memnon kisses me.
CHAPTER 41
Hateful, hateful man. With his wicked lips and wicked thoughts and wicked intentions.
He’s got some fucking gall to dare kiss me after he’s upended my world.
So I bite his lip. Hard.
Memnon groans as the metallic tang of blood hits our tongues. The monster smiles against my mouth and deepens the kiss, as though the small violence is a turn-on for him. Despite my raging fury—and, oh, how it rages—I kiss him back, hungry for more of him. My fingers slide into his hair and pull it taut enough to hurt.
I hate that I do still want him when all I really want is to hate him.
Memnon’s fingers flex just the slightest bit against my throat, reminding me that he has me pinned and vulnerable, though it doesn’t make me feel vulnerable. I feel as though I’m going to combust. Already, I know that if I open my eyes, I will see plumes of my magic seeping out of me.
“My empress is finally showing her true colors,” Memnon murmurs against my lips.
There’s nothing true about this at all—this is my worst side. But if my mate wants to cut himself on the sharpest parts of my personality, so be it.
When his tongue delves back into my mouth, I bite it. Memnon hisses, but again the action only serves to make him kiss me with more fervor. Fervor I return.
I can’t explain it. There is no explaining it. I hate his guts. I’d love nothing more than to kick him in the balls. But I’m also enjoying hate kissing the shit out of his lips. I’m pretty sure I’d be fine taking this hate all the way to the end of desire.
I think I’ve just unlocked a new kink.
Memnon pulls away. “You will know me in all ways,” he vows.
His thoughts must be in the same vein as mine—that, or he heard me through our bond.
While it’s fine for me to fantasize about using Memnon to fulfill my own desires, like hell am I going to let him do the same thing.
I push the sorcerer away, his hand slipping effortlessly away from my neck.
Hate-fucking fantasies be damned—
“If I can’t break the bond, I’ll simply cast a spell to shrivel up your dick,” I threaten him.
Memnon smiles, a bead of blood gathering at the corner of his lip. “It’s cute that you think you haven’t already tried.”
That has my eyes widening.
He wipes the bead of blood away, flicking his eyes over me.
“Release,” he says in Sarmatian.
Immediately, his magic lifts itself from my body, no longer anchoring me to the table.
His eyes settle on me. “I love you, little witch,” he says, his expression a touch sad. “More than all the world. That is my deepest truth, and it’s one I should have told you again and again as I once did.
“And I’m sorry you have to bear the weight of that love.” His features shift a little, growing determined. “But you will bear it.”
With that, he heads for the doorway.
“Three days,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s all you have left, Empress.”
And then he’s gone.
Those three days pass in the blink of an eye.
Three days to try to sort out my own tangled emotions. Three days to fixate on my revenge. Three days to wonder what Memnon means to do on the night of the ball.
I now stare at the gown spread out on my bed, my mood grim.
I don’t want to face Memnon again.
Maybe that’s cowardly. It’s still the truth.