Page 9 of Bedeviled

“You need my help?” He sounds genuinely thrilled.

“No!” Goddess no.

The fourth gown I put on zips up perfectly, and before I’ve even looked at myself in the mirror, I’ve decided that this one is it.

But then I do lift my gaze, and I suck in a breath.

The dress not only fits me like a dream, it looks like a dream. The bodice hugs my torso, tapering off to a V over my pelvis, where the skirt gathers, then ripples out. The dress itself is made from soft, buttery silk, but gossamer thin tulle overlays the skirt, the material shifting about my legs with my every movement. Matching off-the-shoulder tulle sleeves hang against my upper arms. The back is low, and delicate fabric buttons run from the top edge of it down to the soft swell of my backside.

I think it’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever worn.

I chew on my inner cheek as I stare at myself in the dressing room mirror. Despite my hair being a little wild and frizzy from my run through Sarmatia and my makeup being minimal, my cheeks are flushed and my pupils are blown wide, and I have a look on my face like…like a woman in love.

On a whim, I release a little of my magic—just enough to smooth out my windblown hair and soften the waves of it—and then I leave the dressing room.

Memnon still sits on the ostentatious couch in the waiting area, his forearms now braced against his thighs, his hands loosely folded in the space between his legs.

As soon as he hears me step out, he looks up.

His entire body stills as his eyes crawl up my form. I can see the whites of those eyes and how his breath catches as he takes me in.

Finally, his gaze settles on my face. I am not the only one looking as though they are in love. He is the picture of yearning.

The sorcerer stands, his staggering frame unfolding. He smooths a hand down his tuxedo almost self-consciously.

“Amage…est amage,” he breathes.

Queen, my queen.

His eyes hold multitudes. “Your beauty would make the gods cry.”

I just manage to stop myself from ducking my head, suddenly bashful.

“I’m pretty sure that’s blasphemous, Memnon,” I say, even as I fight back a smile. I like it that he thinks I’m beautiful. Goddess, I am a goner.

He shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away for even that action. “Then let them smite me for speaking the truth.”

He approaches me slowly, as though if he moves too quickly I might startle and run. He takes my hand and spins me, watching my filmy skirt rustle and twist around me, looking like seafoam.

“Is this the one?” he asks.

I nod, intoxicated by the way he’s drinking me in.

His grip tightens on my hand. “Alright, then let’s be off, my bride.”

I can’t help the way my skin pebbles at that word: bride.

Bloody boils, being in love is nauseating.

He tugs me toward the door, and I nearly let him lead me out before I realize⁠—

“Wait, we can’t just steal a wedding dress,” I say, horrified.

“We can do whatever we please,” Memnon says. When he sees my look, he adds, “But I will pay for your dress like the honest man I am.”

He heads over to the cash register and draws out his wallet, pulling out a wad of bills. Unceremoniously he drops them on the counter. Considering this is a wedding dress, I’m going to have to hope even that ungodly amount of money will be enough.

Memnon tucks his wallet away like he’s done this his entire life and not merely the last few months.