Page 17 of Bedeviled

I shake my head, even as I let him lead me to the glass house.

Inside, there are rugs and pillows, a table upon which rests a sweating ice bucket chilling a bottle of champagne, glass flutes, plates and silverware, another waiting bottle of champagne, and a two-tiered cake decorated with wildflowers.

Rose petals are strewn about like confetti, leading my eyes away from the table to the bed resting at the back of the room. I draw in a sharp inhalation at the sight. It’s no different from Memnon’s bed or my own for that matter, but the rose petals that litter it really emphasize the weddedness of the whole thing.

“We don’t need to do anything,” he says.

He said similar words on our first wedding night an eon ago. Similar, ridiculous words, considering we’ve been doing all sorts of things together since I revived him from the grave.

“We’ve been casually doing them,” Memnon insists.

Right. Because this man has been edging us toward deep, meaningful sex.

“Uh-huh,” I say, disbelieving. This was the same man who mere minutes ago claimed that I was his and he wouldn’t let me go.

I place a hand on his chest. “Listen,” I say, “I’m sure being married has all sorts of downsides”—particularly if your spouse happens to be an ancient, bloodthirsty king—“but getting to bang you all the time is not one of them.”

It’s not exactly the most romantic thing I’ve ever said, but I swear the look Memnon gives me heats the room at least five degrees.

Dropping my hand from his chest, I back away from him, ignoring the way his eyes are still devouring me.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat a little as I head over to the cake. I pick up the knife resting next to it. “I think I deserve a little treat for going through with this whole thing.” I mean, the alternative was slowly getting crushed to death by the weight of an unfulfilled oath, but what are details? The fact remains that I did marry this terrifying man. I didn’t even annul it like I could’ve. I think that definitely earned me some cake.

I begin slicing into the thick buttercream frosting, cutting out a neat slice. “And I suppose you deserve it, too,” I add conversationally, well aware that Memnon is still devouring me with those eyes of his, “considering you set this all up—though technically you ought to not get any since you’re the one responsible for forcing us into a shotgun wedding, but you did buy the cake.”

I pull the slice out and set it on a waiting plate.

My new husband leans lightly against the nearby wall, tugging his bow tie as he continues to watch me with rapt fascination. “You burned the annulment.”

My shoulders tense. “My magic did that on its own.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “You sure about that, wife?” he says, scrutinizing me. “I can always get another one⁠—”

No.

I feel the warmth of Memnon’s emotions across our bond as he hears my thought ring out loud and clear.

His eyes seem to twinkle. “I think you liked it when I said you were mine forever.”

My heart skips a beat, even as I grimace. Picking up the plate, I cross over to Memnon.

“Maybe I did,” I admit, my voice low. I break off a piece of the spongy wedding cake. “Maybe I’m having some conflicting feelings at the moment when it comes to you.”

I lift the cake to his lips. Memnon gives me a perplexed look.

“This is a modern wedding tradition,” I explain, surprised that this is one of the holes in his knowledge of modern life.

After a moment, he opens his mouth.

The very tradition I speak of allows me—hypothetically—to smash this cake all over his face, and at the very least, he deserves that. So I don’t know what kind of weak-willed, moon-eyed sap I am that I only gently place the bit of cake on his tongue.

Memnon’s mouth closes around the dessert, and he watches me with that same uncanny intensity as he swallows the cake.

So this feeding each other is a tradition? he asks down our bond.

I nod, watching his throat work.

Then I feed you as well? he asks.