Page 10 of Bedeviled

Oh, to have the confidence of a retired warlord.

Then, crossing the room, he takes my hand, presses a kiss to my knuckles, and drags me off to our next destination.

The ache from the unfulfilled oath is beginning to be a problem. I’m breathless as I stand in front of the tray of men’s wedding bands.

Unlike the bridal shop, Memnon and I managed to find a jewelry shop still open. And if the jeweler found it at all strange that the two of us came in clad in wedding attire, he didn’t bother saying so.

The choices in front of me don’t much help. I know I want Memnon to wear a golden ring, but besides that, I’m a little lost.

I turn to Memnon. “Can I see your hand?”

In answer, he lifts his arm to me.

I grasp his calloused hand, taking a moment to appreciate the nicked scars that adorn it.

One by one I slide each wedding band onto his ring finger. The plain gold one looks good, the hammered one is a little too rustic. The band with Celtic knots feels, well, too Celtic for my Sarmatian groom. Same goes for the one incised with mountains.

Across my bond I feel…giddiness.

What are you thinking? I can’t help but ask as I slide another ring onto Memnon’s finger.

That I like this, he says.

He doesn’t elaborate further, but he doesn’t have to. Memnon is still getting used to me caring about him. Fussing over him. What I find mortifying about my feelings for him, he finds moving.

I look down at the band I just placed on his finger, and my grip on his hand tightens.

“This one,” I say breathlessly to the jeweler.

The ring is etched with a vine of laurel leaves. I don’t dare peer too deeply into exactly why it is perfect for Memnon. I’ve been a sentimental sap enough today as it is.

Across our connection, I feel Memnon’s surge of pride as he stares down at it.

When I see him swallow, I silently ask, Do you like it?

I can always pick out another…

Memnon’s gaze flicks to mine. Don’t you dare.

He takes a moment to pull out his wallet and hand the jeweler his credit card, all while the jeweler says something in Italian about the magnificent pick we made.

When Memnon’s eyes return to mine, I see his feelings laid bare in them. I love it more than I can say. Again his throat tightens with his emotions.

It’s right then, caught in his gaze, that a brutal wave of the oath’s magic rushes through me. I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest.

Memnon’s hands come to my upper arms.

Selene? he says down our connection, alarmed.

I lick my lips and nod. “I’m fine,” I reassure him, aware that he must be feeling the oath’s increasing grip as well, “but I think it’s time we get married.”

CHAPTER 4

My breath comes in ragged, shallow pants as Memnon drives along the coastal hills just north of San Francisco, Nero reclining along the seats behind us.

I don’t know precisely where the ceremony is to be held, but I don’t much care. Between the time it took to return to Memnon’s house to pick up my familiar and now, the blood oath’s grip on me has dramatically intensified.

The last time this unbreakable oath’s magic took hold, the day after the Samhain Ball, was it this brutal?