Page 151 of Bedeviled

My husband takes a few sips of the drink and winces deeply. His gaze lifts, and he gives me a long, arch look. I lament the fact that I can’t hear whatever ridiculous opinions he has about hot chocolate right now. And whipped cream. And sprinkles.

Unlike Memnon, my dad and I happily drink our hot chocolates and chat. Slowly, my dad’s trembling turns into leg bouncing. Then even that settles.

By the time he’s ready to go, he’s not looking so unsettled. That doesn’t stop him, however, from giving me another tight hug on his way out, holding on for a couple extra seconds like I might evaporate away through his arms.

“I love you, Booger,” he says. “And I’m so proud of how you helped your coven sisters tonight. That’s a skill that can’t be taught.” He releases me and points to Memnon. “And that man right there, he’s a keeper.”

“You mean because he’s a billionaire?” I ask innocently.

Memnon flashes me another look, and this time I do hear a scrap of his thoughts as he narrows his eyes and smirks at me.

…spank…

I try not to appear too excited.

My dad guffaws, unaware of what’s happening between me and his son-in-law. “I’m not going to complain about that.” He clears his throat and leans in a little. “Don’t tell your mother I said that.”

He steps away from me and pulls Memnon in for a hug. “You healed many people tonight as well. And the way you speak of my daughter when she isn’t in the room.” He nods. “It says a lot.”

I swear Memnon holds my dad tighter, and my own emotions well up in me. My sweet, Golden Retriever father is leveling my husband in the best way.

Memnon’s own father, Ilyapa, was a man Memnon strived to make proud. And when Memnon lost him, it was a gaping wound.

So to have my dad come in and accept Memnon and fawn over him—my overgrown warlord soul mate has no defense against it.

“Call anytime—come over anytime,” my dad says, breaking away from the hold.

Memnon nods, his throat working. I dimly sense the rawness of his emotions even after we watch my dad drive away and reenter the house.

I take a good look at us, then I make a beeline for the house’s fancy wine room. I probably should’ve grabbed the wine while my dad was still here, but whatever. I’ll save inebriation for the people not on the road tonight.

Memnon follows me, and I can almost feel his piqued curiosity at my movements.

I step into the wine room, the air in here cooler than the rest of the house. There aren’t many bottles on the racks, but I suppose it makes no difference. They all seem indistinguishable to me. I can sense Memnon’s eyes on me as I peer at the various wines.

“Looking for something in particular?”

“I want something that tastes like the blood of our enemies,” I say.

“Ah.” Memnon steps up to my side. “I haven’t bottled that yet.”

He taps on the necks of various bottles. “This one will taste like memories. This one, longing.” Memnon gives me a mirthful look then continues on with the bit. “This one will taste like fondness, and this one forgetting. And I have a feeling this one”—he taps on the neck of it—“is all bitter.”

He drops his hand, his eyes moving over the racks. “I don’t have any for anger or wrath, but—” Memnon moves to another section of the room. “This one tastes like hope.”

The sorcerer looks at me, an eyebrow arched.

It’s not nearly so tortured a drink as the blood of our enemies, but I nod.

I could use some hope.

I hear the scrape of glass on wood as he pulls the bottle out, and it’s champagne. I can’t be sure, but it might even be the same champagne we drank on our wedding day.

Warmth pools low in my belly at the thought.

Together we leave the room. A wisp of Memnon’s magic crosses the vast kitchen, pulling two stemmed glasses from one of the cupboards. Another arm of his magic uncorks the bottle.

A small smile dances on my face as I watch him—the way the muscles in his forearms move beneath his skin as he pours our drinks, the lock of hair that falls rakishly over an eye.