Page 61 of Bedeviled

He shakes his head. “You know that’s not the same, little witch.”

“You were a little bossy, but…” How do I say that it was a little fun to fuck the monster?

He frowns. The monster? Memnon echoes down our bond.

Oops. I hadn’t meant to share that thought.

“I think I do like even the scariest parts of you, Memnon,” I whisper. “And please don’t make me say that louder, or I will take it all back.”

He stares at me for a moment, then pulls me in close. Across our bond I can feel all the emotions welling within in—disbelief, relief, gratitude, but most of all…love. Love so vast it’s intimidating. Love that’s been built on not one but two of my lifetimes.

Love so big, it scares me more than his monster.

So I push myself up and find Memnon’s cock, and in one fluid movement, I reseat myself on him.

“Now, sorcerer, finish what you’ve started…”

CHAPTER 13

I wake in the middle of the night, my body jittery. The transition between meeting Memnon to getting into a car crash to nearly getting eaten by a demon to getting fucked by his monster was more than a little violent, and though I feel mostly calm, my body carries the memories. And when I reach over to the warm body at my side, my fingers meet fur.

Nero.

“Memnon?” I whisper, looking for my soul mate. The room is silent and still.

I slip out of bed, groping around until I find a light switch. I click it on, and above me, an iron chandelier flickers to life, illuminating the bedroom in warm amber light.

I stand there, naked, unsure whether I want to figure out where Memnon is or use this as an excuse to explore this new house.

In the end, I settle on finding some clothes. The bag I packed when I left Henbane is still back in my wrecked car, but if this house is anything like the last one, there will be plenty of clothes for me inside the closet.

I pad over to a closed door on the other side of the room. I suck in a breath when I open it and turn on the lights. It’s a closet in the loosest sense, but the space is large enough to fit my entire dorm room into.

Already it’s partially filled with clothes. I run my fingers over them when I catch sight of my reflection in the standing mirror at the end of the closet.

I don’t know why I draw closer, why I decide to take a closer look at my form, but I do.

The necklaces I wear—the carnelian one and the contraceptive one—hang heavy around my neck. But even wearing them and my earrings, my pale skin looks bare.

I step closer, my fingers absently going to my upper arm, right where I once had a tattoo. I trace over the bare skin. In my mind’s eye I can vividly see the snarling panther inked right above the delicate hooves and the twisting body of a slain deer. My fingers trail over to my chest just as I feel heat at my back, then the warm press of Memnon’s flesh against mine.

His hand covers my own, pinning it in place as he peers at my reflection.

“I miss my tattoos,” I say, surprising myself.

I don’t know when that happened. When I came to openly care about this past that I lived then lost.

“You don’t have to miss them.”

My eyes flick to his, my eyebrows rising. Is he suggesting I get them re-inked? The idea takes root in me.

But of course. It’s the twenty-first century. Of course I can get these tattoos again.

Memnon’s hand and his attention have already moved to my necklace. He runs his fingers over it, then assesses me in the mirror.

“You still wear my jewelry like a queen,” he breathes against my ear.

A corner of my mouth lifts, like the sap I am, and I lean back into him.