Page 14 of Bedeviled

The only spaces left to be filled are our signatures.

When did you fill this out?

Little witch, you ask me that as though marrying you hasn’t been my sole focus this entire time.

I swallow, remembering how, in the end, that was the entire point of framing me for murder. Well, that and remembering my past.

Taking the pen from the officiant, I sign. The past comes over me once more; the first time I did this with Memnon, I could not write my own name—he helped me. With a shaky exhale, I pass the pen to Memnon. I watch as he writes out his name, just as he did in Rome, my heart giving an uncomfortable lurch at the sight.

The moment he lifts his pen from the paper, the aching pain of the spell vanishes, and my legs nearly fold as I draw in a deep, gratifying breath.

Placing a hand to my chest, my eyes rise to Memnon. He’s already gazing at me, the look on his face a mixture of relief and wonder.

“Wife,” he says, I think just to taste the word on his tongue. It makes my breath catch and my heart race. And now that grin is back on his face, as though he cannot help it.

“Husband,” I murmur, just to try it out. A thrill runs through me, but I don’t know if it’s my own or Memnon’s. I don’t want it to be my own. I don’t want to give into this contrived marriage so easily despite being in love with the sorcerer.

The officiant tucks the marriage license away. “I will mail this off to the House of Keys. Your own copies should be ready within a few weeks. Many felicitations to you both on your union. May you have a long and happy life together.”

The more words that come out of the officiant’s mouth, the harder it is to breathe. Reality is settling on my shoulders, and it is a heavy, sobering weight.

I just got married. I really am a wife.

I swear I can hear the rush of blood between my ears. I feel a little woozy. And of course Memnon is there, Memnon who must be hyperaware of my every expression and mood. Memnon who has always wished to bind me closer and closer still.

Goddess, what have I done?

I watch the officiant’s back as he retreats from us, aware that the photographer is also approaching. That she will likely want us to pose for photos. That I might actually lose it if she does.

Instead, however, it’s the officiant who changes course, his fingers snapping in the air, like he remembered something.

He turns around, whistling a jaunty little tune as he returns to us.

“I almost forgot,” he says, “the annulment papers.”

My blood chills as he opens his briefcase once more and pulls out a clipboard.

Licking a finger, he flips through the papers pinned in it.

“I’m s-sorry, what did you say?”

The officiant tugs out a new document, one he slides under the metal clasp of the clipboard. “The annulment papers, as requested by your spouse,” he says, nodding to Memnon.

My head snaps up to the sorcerer.

Now my new husband isn’t smiling.

My stomach twists uncomfortably.

Is this a trick? I silently ask him.

Memnon gives his head the slightest of shakes, his body stiff with tension. He appears decidedly unhappy.

It’s not. I can sense the thread of fear weaving through our bond.

My heart feels like it’s lodged itself in my throat. This is an out. This can be the shortest marriage in the history of marriages if I but sign the document.

Is that what you want? I ask carefully. I don’t know why I feel like I’m going to be sick.