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“—but my magic recognizes yours, and my bond is fucking singing through my blood as it hasn’t for the past two thousand years.”
We’re so close that our breath is intermingling.
“It’s why you can speak to me in Sarmatian when you’re pleased with me, and Latin when you’re angry,” Memnon continues, making me recall an earlier encounter in the spellcasting kitchen. I’d slipped into Latin with him then. “It’s why you can scream and fling your oaths and still kiss me as though we have done it a hundred upon a hundred times before—because we have.
“So you are wrong, little witch. You are many things to me. You are my queen, my empress, my wife. You are my Roxilana, the woman who awoke my magic and spoke to my mind before we ever met. You are my nemesis, who cursed me to endless sleep.”
Memnon’s hand cups my cheek. “And you are my Selene, my eternal soul mate, who woke me from it.”