Page 8 of Bedeviled

“And I guess I can pick out a dress and a ring.” I don’t mention that the unbreakable oath’s magic is growing. I can feel it digging in, tightening around muscle and bone.

“Fantastic,” Memnon says. “Now to find a dress shop.”

The bridal shops are all closed.

By the time we get to the third one, the magic has crossed the threshold between uncomfortable and painful.

“No,” I whisper when I see the darkened lights of the space.

I press a hand to my sternum, where the oath’s magic seems to press the hardest, leaving me a little breathless.

Memnon looks me over, then eyes the shop again. A small puff of his magic leaves his palm as he reaches for the door. I hear a lock tumble, and he opens it.

“Would you look at that?” he says, “the door was⁠—”

An alarm begins to blare from inside. Another gust of his power rolls over the interior wall of the space, and the alarm cuts off.

“—open.”

I glance at him with owlish eyes. “Are we breaking in?”

“That’s such a harsh term. I like improvising.”

“We should just go back to California,” I insist.

Memnon looks me over again, his eyes lingering on my hand, which still presses against my sternum. “We shouldn’t.”

I loiter out on the sidewalk, shifting my weight as I debate, debate⁠—

Another plume of the sorcerer’s magic all but shoves me inside.

“Memnon.”

“Whoops.”

The door closes heavily behind us, and I hear the deadbolt tumble into place. “Did you just lock me inside?”

“You are still my captive bride,” he says, leaning against the door.

Honestly, this man is unbelievable.

Memnon flashes me a downright nefarious smile, like he enjoys being bad, which I know he does. He nods to the room. “Go shop.”

I narrow my gaze at him but do in fact turn and do as he says. Pretty sure my feminism isn’t simply out to lunch; I think that bitch booked a vacation somewhere far away.

The walls of the shop are lined with wedding gowns, and I wander over to them, idly flipping through the dresses while Memnon flicks on the lights. Between the different sizes and styles, I’m hopelessly lost. The magic digging into me, however, spurs me into action, and I grab a handful of different gowns that look roughly my size and flitter to the back of the building while Memnon finds a baroque couch to lounge on.

I try the first dress on, which has a halter neckline and an open back. The moment I put it on, the fabric collar of it seems to amplify the suffocating feel of the oath’s magic.

Okay, absolutely not this one.

The next one is too small, and the one after that gapes open around my armpits.

I pause to lightly bang my head against the nearby wall. This is needless. I don’t need a pretty dress to get married⁠—

“You do!” Memnon shouts from the main sitting area.

“You’re not helping!” I shout back.