I bite my lower lip as I stare at the words I copied.
Sounds good. Love you—see you soon.
I try not to shiver at how mundane these last words were. It makes death seem all the more grotesque, to rob someone of their life right in the middle of a perfectly average day.
Instead, I focus on the ingredient itself—should I throw the note into the cauldron or whisper the words over it?
Before I can decide, the front door crashes open, wood splintering as it rips off its hinges. I expect to hear a chorus of screams, but most of, if not all, my sisters have gone to bed, save for a group that left an hour ago for some outdoor spellcasting.
Familiar heavy footfalls stride across the foyer, and my stomach fills with dread.
Memnon fills the doorway, his eyes blazing. They move from my face to the wooden spoon I have in my hand, then the cauldron in front of me.
I move in front of the cauldron, ready to defend my spell. “You do not get to just—”
I yelp as he picks me up and sets me on the island behind me.
He puts a finger up to my face. “Stay,” he growls, his magic coiling around me.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog,” I snap back at him.
I try to hop off the counter, but damn it, he spelled my ass—literally. I can’t get up.
I watch on helplessly as Memnon stalks toward my cauldron and grabs it with his bare hands.
“Memnon, no—”
Before I can even finish my plea, he overturns the thing, dumping its contents out onto the open fire beneath it, dousing the flame and ruining my concoction.
I make a horrified sound and stare aghast at the ruins of my spell.
Memnon turns back to me, his chest heaving and his palms blistered from where he held the cauldron. “You were trying to break our bond!” he roars.
Upstairs, I hear someone yell, “Shut up!”
“Goddess above, lower your voice,” I whisper. “You’re going to wake up the whole coven.” I’m skating on thin enough ice as it is.
“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.