Page 40 of Bedeviled

I bury my face in the crook of his neck. I can feel something unnervingly sweet down our bond. I think it’s coming from him, but I also feel oddly light. I tighten my grip on him, feeling like a spider monkey as I wrap both my arms and legs around him.

Memnon turns to survey my room. “We have a bigger bed at our house.”

I don’t fight him on even that statement. Our house.

“Mine’s better for cuddling.”

He nuzzles my nose, being affectionate. “Prove it.”

He and I both know his words are just an excuse to remain close. I think he craves my touch as much as I’m coming to crave his.

Memnon releases a bit of his magic to move my notes from where they rest on my bed. Then he lays me out on my comforter and follows me onto the mattress.

The twin bed was small enough when it was just me, but with the two of us on it, I have to drape myself half on, half off the sorcerer.

He holds my hand up in the air with his, staring at my gleaming ring, then he threads his fingers between mine. “Did you imagine yourself married at twenty?” he asks.

I laugh. “Goddess, no.”

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

I thought burning the annulment was proof enough of my opinion on the matter.

My eyes slide up to his, though I’m feeling particularly self-conscious. “Read my mind and find out for yourself.”

Memnon shakes his head, swallowing a little. He looks young suddenly. “I don’t want to force the answers out.” I think sometimes he associates his ability to pull people’s thoughts and memories as a violation. “I’d rather you tell me.”

“I don’t regret it,” I admit, holding his gaze. Memnon is as vulnerable now as he ever is—we both are.

My gaze drops back to his chest, to the dizzying designs inked onto his skin. I trace them with my finger, aware that earlier today, I was drawing versions of these tattoos in my notebook.

My own skin feels very bare by contrast.

I slip off him a little so I can lay my hand flat against his chest, right over his heart. Memnon is so formidable I sometimes forget he’s still mortal. Still fallible. We’re only starting to get past the issues between us. But there are others that loom larger.

I could still lose him.

“There’s something we haven’t spoken about.” I don’t wait for him to respond. I can feel my throat working, the heady afterglow from sex dimming. “Eislyn is still out there.”

Beneath me, Memnon goes painfully still. I know he hasn’t forgotten, but he hasn’t mentioned it either.

“You’re right,” he finally admits. “We haven’t spoken of her, and we should’ve.”

For a long moment, the sorcerer is silent. His magic, however, isn’t. It’s leaking out of him in ever-increasing waves, the ropes of it snapping about agitatedly.

Memnon places his hand over mine, pinning it to his skin. “I have…struggled to linger on her memory since we saw her last. When I do, my power slips.”

Even as he speaks, a soft glow seems to start up at the back of his eyes, and I am reminded of the cost of his power.

Memnon wields magic as I do, but sorcery is different from witchcraft. The more power Memnon draws on, the more his magic eats at his conscience. Over time, it will wear away his compassion until there is little left. That’s what makes sorcerers so terrifying; the strongest ones are also often the evilest.

And every time Memnon’s power peeks out from his eyes or stirs his hair, I’m reminded of the heavy cost he pays to use it.

I drag my attention back to the topic at hand.

“Eislyn is out there somewhere, aware that we live,” I say gently.

Memnon’s hold tightens on me. “I cannot think rationally about that, not when I take in the breadth of her betrayal. She turned my comrades against us, fed our kingdom to Rome, and enchanted me to sleep away the years. She set it all up to make it appear as though it was by your hand,” Memnon says. As he speaks, his hair stirs of its own volition, brushing against my cheek. “And those are not even the worst of her offenses.”