Page 16 of Bedeviled

I release a bit of power from my palms. A moment later, the first tendril of smoke rises up from the edges of the annulment papers. The singed smell quickly follows as the document catches on fire.

The flames spread rapidly across the paper, hungry for more. Within seconds the annulment is nothing more than a couple curled, brown scraps of paper, some cinders, and smoke.

Only then, once it’s essentially ashes, do I relax.

“I guess we have our answer to that, now, don’t we?” the officiant says, smiling jovially as he takes the clipboard back from me. His words are punctuated by more of that incessant clicking of the photographer’s camera.

Memnon’s eyes are heavy on me as the officiant congratulates us again, then walks away, this time for good.

I finally turn and meet those eyes, knowing full well the weight of what I just did. As dramatically as possible, I declared that I wanted to be his.

Memnon grins, the expression spreading until it reaches all corners of his face.

“Wife.” He’s not testing the word out this time. No, now he’s saying it with open relish.

If you don’t sign those annulment papers, then you are mine in earnest, he’d said. I shiver again.

I am afraid—maybe more afraid than I was before, when I was fighting the pull driving me toward this violent, complicated man. Because now I truly feel as though I’m in free fall and not even my good judgment can catch me.

Memnon reels me in and steals a kiss—a soft, sugary-sweet one.

When has this battle-born man mastered softness? Sweetness? Why is he so good at it? I don’t think I like it. Not when I’m wearing his ring and the flower crown he made with his will and magic. Not when our old, Roman vows still linger in the air.

If I continue to fall for him and it ends badly, I’m pretty sure the heartbreak will be soul destroying.

My new husband—Goddess, that sounds weird, even in my head—breaks off the kiss to thread his fingers through mine.

“Come,” he says, backing away and pulling me along with him.

“Where to now?” I ask, stumbling after him.

“Have some faith, est ziwasa,” he teases, his eyes dancing with secrets.

My wife. A pleasant shiver races down my skin as I linger on that term.

Memnon doesn’t lead me back to the car, though I cannot imagine what else could be out here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

Instead, he walks us to a narrow, earthen path that winds down the sloping hillside, the ocean shining in the distance. A copse of oak trees comes into view, and just beyond them rests a house made of glass and wood.

“Is that—” for us?

“Yes.”

Even from here I can tell this is the sort of marital getaway that finds its way into magazines and internet lists. It’s beautiful and remote and probably cost a small fortune—not that Memnon is exactly hurting for money.

It reminds me again of when I opened his closet and found hangers full of clothes for me. This is care and consideration. So much of it. My heart gives a terrible pang, and something rises in me. Goddess, but I think this is giddiness.

I should probably be less flattered and more worried that all of this consideration obsessively revolves around me.

“Just how long have you been planning this?” I ask.

He glances back at me with a sly look. “Est amage, I tried to force your hand in marriage weeks ago.”

That was back when we firmly hated each other. Or at least, when I hated him. I have no idea what toxic combination of vengeance and desire drove Memnon in this direction.

“Bold of you to think that directly after framing me for murder, you’d still be able to romance me.”

“I was open to the fact that you might stab me in the process, but yes, even when I raged for what I thought you did, I still was optimistic.” He smiles at me. “I was and remain an optimist.”