Page 5 of Bedeviled

My skin still pricks at the endearment. The wind stirs my hair as I debate running some more.

But I’m tired and my skin and bones throb from the growing press of my unbreakable oath.

I lift a hand, then drag it down the wispy enchantment cloaking me. My power briefly shimmers as the spell parts, then disintegrates.

There you are.

I cannot see Memnon’s expression, but I can feel his pleasure.

The line of his power twists around my midsection, like a snake coiling around a kill. Once it encircles me, it gives a tug, drawing me forward. I stumble a step, then another and another.

I reach a hand to the blue magic wound around my torso, stroking it softly. Under the press of my fingers, the smoky tendrils of Memnon’s magic unhook themselves around my waist and begin to climb up my hand and then my wrist until the entire spell disintegrates.

My gaze flicks to the sorcerer in the distance, the corner of my mouth curving up.

I am tired and aching…but I’m also a difficult bloody broad when I want to be.

I turn and flee.

Far behind me, I hear a laugh—presumably as Memnon gives chase.

It’s harder without a horse, isn’t it? I taunt, ignoring my exhaustion and the growing tightness in my chest.

I think I’ll manage, Memnon responds.

I can hear his heavy footfalls gaining on me. Still, it’s a shock when his arms eventually wrap around my waist.

I let out a surprised yelp when he lifts me off my feet, one that morphs into a laugh as he spins me around.

“Two thousand years,” he says, his mouth close to my ear as he slows us down, “and you still have not figured out how to get away from me.”

Memnon sets me back on my feet, and I turn in his arms to look at him. Immediately my breath catches. His black, shoulder-length hair offsets his bronze skin, and it seems to pull out all the shades of his smoky amber eyes.

His lips curl into a sinful smile, one made all the wickeder by the deep scar on his face, a scar that I could draw from memory. The ropey skin runs in a jagged line from the edge of his left eye to his ear, then it slashes downward, cresting over his defined cheekbone before tapering off at his jawline.

My eyes dip lower, and I can just make out the panther tattoo peeking from the neckline of⁠—

I suck in a sharp breath when my eyes move to the tuxedo I’m crushed against. The tuxedo he must’ve chased me down in.

Memnon came to me dressed for the wedding. My stomach flips at that.

I’m sure this little stunt must’ve sullied it.

“If you think for a moment that I care about that, little witch,” he says softly, tucking a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear while clearly eavesdropping on my thoughts, “then you’ll need to reevaluate.”

My gaze travels back up to his face. Memnon has always taken my breath away, but right now, with his dark, wavy hair lightly oiled and his tux pressed, he’s an irresistible combo of feral and civilized.

“You surprised me,” he admits, those lush lips curving. “I did not think you cared much for our past. But this is romantic. Nostalgic.” That final word hangs heavy. His eyes are equally heavy—with love, with memory and perhaps a bit of sadness too.

His gaze sweeps over the expanse of grassland before returning to me. “My mother would be pleased by how long you held off being captured for your wedding.”

It wasn’t that long. Then again, perhaps he’s referring to the larger delay I placed on the wedding when I first put it off.

I smile softly at what I remember of Tamara, his mother.

Once more his eyes move from mine to the land beyond us.

“It looks the same,” he says, his expression impassive as he takes in what was once Sarmatia.