Page 72 of Bedeviled

She chokes on the wine.

“Mom, really,” I say, leaning over to thump her on the back.

“Selene Imogen Bowers,” she gasps out.

“What?”

“We don’t support runaway capitalism in this household.”

I had to try. “Yeah, what a fucking asshole,” I say.

She starts to laugh. “Absolutely the worst sort of person.”

“He will give good Yule gifts though.”

“I tell you what, if he buys me an island, I will find it in myself to be nice to him.”

“Deal.”

1 Should I speak to you more in Sarmatian? Should I tell you about how I rode from Rome to the steppelands north of the Black Sea? Or the strain I felt in my shoulder when I pulled back my bowstring and took aim⁠—

CHAPTER 16

“Well, I thought that went well,” Memnon says when we step off the ley line a short distance from his new house. The entrance here is subtle; a small circle of stones in the forest is the only indicator that there even is an opening.

I scoff as I stumble a little. I don’t know how many drinks I’ve had since the sun rose this morning, but I do know that I am sloshed. “If by well, you mean that you weren’t eviscerated on the spot, then sure, it went well.”

From between the trees Nero prowls out. I reach out and pet my panther, feeling more like myself now that he’s by my side. “I still cannot believe you told my parents everything.”

I don’t mention that I do feel immense relief that my parents now know about me and Memnon. And while they might be put off by the situation, they begrudgingly seem to accept it. Well, my mom, that is. My dad is already planning cookouts with Memnon and calling him son, like my warlord husband is some overgrown, playful young boy.

“I would have no secrets between us.”

“Yes, us, as in you and me,” I say, pointing between the two of us. “Good ol’ Liv and Ben do not need to know the full extent of your depravity and my foolishness.”

“You are not foolish.”

I guffaw. “Oh yes, I fucking am.” If I had a single iota of sense, I would end things between us.

I stagger into him, and Memnon catches me, then hauls me up in his arms.

“You’re not,” he insists. “And I like your parents. They are good people. Loving. It settles my soul that they raised you.”

And with that, he carries me into our house.

The next morning, I once again wake to an empty bed. Well, empty of Memnon. Instead, Nero sleeps with his back to me, snoring softly, the big oaf.

I pet him. “Who’s a good, overgrown kitty?” I say, running a hand down the length of him.

His tail thumps, probably with irritation, but he endures the ordeal. I’m positive that he secretly enjoys it.

The longer I pet him, however, the more obvious the house’s silence becomes. No one moves around in the living room, no bacon fat crackles and pops in the kitchen, no soft sounds come from my husband moving around.

Only then, when the silence itself becomes loud do I remember that Memnon had mentioned right before we fell asleep last night that he would be gone part of today for work. And another memory comes of Memnon peppering kisses down my back and murmuring apologies about leaving my side.

Now I slip out of bed, wander into our shared closet, and pull out the first shirt and pants I see hanging inside that appear to be in my size. Pulling off the tags, I strip down and shove them on. Wandering into the bathroom, I grab the toothbrush Memnon left for me, and I brush my teeth. As I do so, I begin opening cabinets.

Call it curiosity.