Bewitched

It feels at best like a bad idea and at worst, a trap. That doesn’t stop me from stepping into Memnon’s space and reaching out a tentative hand. The moment my fingers touch the puckered skin of his scar, his eyes close and his nostrils flare.

Memnon stands as still as stone while I draw my fingers along the path of it, moving first to his ear, then down toward his chin.

“This looks like it hurt,” I murmur.

He makes a noncommittal sound. Because of course it hurt. It must’ve been awful.

I get to the end of the scar, and reluctantly, I let my hand drop.

When Memnon opens his eyes again, I don’t see any trace of his anger. Instead, there’s longing so deep, it makes my stomach flip.

“Wife,” he breathes, his eyes moving to my lips.

I swallow, my own gaze going to his mouth. I want to kiss him again, just to taste his yearning. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me that way.

But I’m not his wife. Whatever wonderful, tragic love story he had, it wasn’t with me.

I place a hand to my temple, trying to clear away my own desire. “How do you know English?” I say distractedly, just to get my mind off kissing him.

“You know my power,” he says, almost obstinately, as though he thinks I’m still lying. “You know I can pull what I want from the minds of others, including language.”

My eyes widen.

He can do what now?

Memnon tilts his head. “Why are you still pretending with me, Empress?” he asks, some of that earlier anger seeping back into his eyes.

“I’m not pretending anything, Memnon.”

“Then how do you know Sarmatian, the language of my people? Supposedly, it’s been a dead language for many, many centuries.”

So that’s the language I’ve been speaking. Sarmatian. “I know several inexplicable—”

“It’s not inexplicable,” Memnon insists before I can finish. “It’s proof of your life with me.”

I give him a look. “This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Memnon.”

His gaze grows intense. “No, nearly everything in my life is about you.”

He continues to stare at me, and it causes me to squirm.

“I’m not your Roxi,” I insist, not letting myself dwell on his point about languages. “I can prove it.”

I have to at this point, both for his sake and for mine. Because that’s what memory loss does to you—makes you relentlessly question your reality.

My gaze sweeps over my things, looking for something—anything—to convince this man I could not possibly be his traitorous wife. When my eyes land on the spines of my photo albums, I pause.

Of course.

So painfully obvious.

Slipping past Memnon, I move over to my albums and pull out every single one.

Gathering them, I nod to my computer chair.

“Sit,” I command.

A split second after I give the order, I’m sure he’s not going to listen. But Memnon flashes me an amused look and obediently sits back at my chair, splaying his legs wide.

I drop all the albums on my bed before picking out one that’s bound in beige cloth with the word Memories written in gold foil across the front.

Memnon watches me with u

A strange tugging sensation rises in my chest as I draw close. I force myself to ignore every last little thing about him because I want to dwell on it all—the burnished bronze of his skin, the twisting form of his tattoos, the rippling bands of his muscles.

I hand the photo album over to him. “Here’s your proof.”

Memnon scowls at the book in his hands, his narrowed gaze flicking from it to me, as though this is some sort of elaborate hoax.

Reluctantly, he opens it.

He grows almost preternaturally quiet. Drawn in by his reaction—hell, drawn in by him—I move to his side, peeking over his shoulder at the images. This album starts on my eighth birthday. There are pictures of me, my friends, the bounce house we rented out in what must be our backyard.

I’m blowing out candles, opening presents, making fu

I don’t remember that day, nor the house. But one of my friends—Em…Emily. Yes, I remember her.

As Memnon flips through the pages, he reaches out one of his hands and absently strokes my arm with his knuckles.

My breath escapes me as I look down at that contact—contact the sorcerer doesn’t even seem to notice. I should move my arm. A sane person would.

Instead, I let my would-be husband caress me.

His touch is so soft and so at odds with every violent aspect of him. His hand only moves away to trace the shape of my face in a close-up—this one of me at a family wedding a year or two later. I vaguely remember that event.

One of Memnon’s legs jiggles, and the more pages he turns, the more agitatedly his leg moves.

All at once, he tosses the album aside.

“No,” he says. “No.” He stands, ru

“If you are not my Roxi, then who are you?” he says, his eyes desolate.

Oh, this one I got. “I am Selene Bowers. My parents are Olivia and Benjamin Bowers. I was born on—”

He’s shaking his head, pinching his eyes shut. “No, no, no. I don’t believe it. I won’t.”

“The woman who betrayed you is gone. I’m someone else. I was born twenty years ago. What other proof do you need?”

His eyes open, and he looks me over, his attention settling on my upper chest.

“Your skin—I would like to see it, est amage.”

I frown at him. “I’m not getting naked.”

“Not today, no,” he agrees.

His answer makes my breath catch, and his words pluck at my magic like a strummed chord.

Memnon rises from my chair before approaching me slowly, like I might take off at any moment. “You have tattoos.”

A strange hum starts up between us, a hum that’s not really a hum at all. I think it has to do with our magic, but I feel it moving along my arms and spine, and it’s making my heart flutter.

“Roxilana had tattoos,” I correct. I have none. But now my interest is piqued.

Memnon comes up to me and gestures for my arm.

Oh, now he asks for permission before he manhandles me?

I move my arm into his reach. Slowly, as though not to scare me off, Memnon takes my forearm, and with his other hand, he lifts the fluttery sleeve of my dress, revealing my upper arm and shoulder.

I hear his exhale, and my gaze flicks to his face.

He looks…disbelieving.

One of Memnon’s fingers comes up, tracing phantom lines on my arm.

“You had a panther tattooed right here,” he says, his voice flat, controlled. “And beneath it, a slain deer.”

Sounds cute.

Memnon’s hand moves from my shoulder and settles on my chest, right over my heart. It’s an intimate touch, even though it’s only inches away from where it was.

Logic is telling me to knock the sorcerer’s hand away. Instinct is telling me to press my hand over his and anchor him to me. So I compromise and do nothing.

“You had my mark right here,” he says softly.

For a second, I think Memnon means to move the neckline of my dress aside. Instead, he reaches for his own shirt before pulling it off in one smooth stroke.

Nobody said you could get undressed in my room.

My protest dies in my throat as soon as my eyes land on his exposed torso. I swallow at the sight of his packed muscles, but it’s impossible to notice his muscles without noticing his tattoos as well. Memnon is covered in them—a deer whose horns sprout flowers, a trampled griffin, a snarling panther who seems to be clawing up Memnon’s neck. And right over the sorcerer’s heart—a winged dragon.

He touches that inked image now. “My family’s clan mark,” he says, staring at me. His eyes are raw.

Now I do tug aside the neckline of my dress, just to show him my own unmarred expanse of skin. There’s no dragon over my heart, just as there were no beasts on my arm.

I hear Memnon’s quick inhale, and for an instant, I see something in his expression that I haven’t before—despair. It vanishes a moment later.

“You removed them,” he accuses, though there’s not much force behind it.

I shake my head. “I never had them to begin with.”

“You are cu

“My photos are not conjured,” I all but growl at him. Those albums are precious to me because they captured much of what my mind has lost—my past.

Judging from the obstinate set of Memnon’s jaw, I can tell this isn’t even about photos or tattoos or logic. The thought that I am not this Roxilana is unfathomable to him.

But he must be considering it. After all, he hasn’t been threatening me, and when I look in his eyes, I see bewilderment instead of malice.

He looks halfway convinced. If I can fully convince him, he may stop accosting me.

A terrible idea pops into my head.

I draw in a deep breath. “Your power allows you to draw information from people’s minds?” I ask.

Memnon gives me a long look, like he can’t make up his mind whether I’m being deceitful. Finally, he gives a slight nod.

I run a hand through my hair, my heart rate accelerating as I say, “Then I propose a deal: if you can answer a question of mine honestly…then I’ll let you use your power on my mind and see for yourself.”

I’m actually surprised Memnon hasn’t already done something this simple. But when I look at him now, he appears…unsettled by the prospect.

Maybe this man does have some ethics after all.

Or maybe he just really doesn’t want to answer my mystery question.

He searches my gaze, looking for who knows what. After a moment, he inclines his head. “Ask your question, little witch.”

He’s going for it. Great Goddess, he’s going for it.

Before I can chicken out, I raise my hand, my power sifting out of my palm. Memnon gazes at the peach-colored magic with something like fondness.

“Answer the following without deceit,” I incant. “Only the truth shall you speak.”

My power snakes across the space between us, slipping between the seam of his lips and up through his nostrils. He draws in a deep inhale, closing his eyes for a moment.

The corners of his mouth curve up. “Your spell has taken root.” He sounds disturbingly pleased by the sensation. His eyes open. “I’m ready.”

I can hear my heart thumping as I form the question. I’m so petrified of Memnon’s answer that part of me wants to choose another.