Bewitched

“You’ve taken my memories?” My voice is u

“Your heart isn’t the only thing I own.” It’s as much a confession as anything else.

I don’t think—I launch myself at him. Memnon’s magic still holds my legs fast to the table, but I manage to claw at his eyes and tear that self-satisfied smirk from his face.

“Fuck,” he curses in Sarmatian, staggering out of my reach. Then he laughs. Laughs!

“Ah, est amage, I’ve missed your fiery side,” he says, stepping back into my space and catching one of my wrists.

“I will gut you for taking my memories, you asshole!” I manage to drag my nails down the other side of Memnon’s face before he’s able to capture my other wrist.

He grins wickedly. “I thought you didn’t mind losing them? You fought for your curse so passionately a week ago.”

“You had no right to take them,” I say vehemently.

Memnon ignores my words, his gaze moving to the open grimoire next to me. “Ah, is this the hateful spell?” He moves my wrists into one of his hands so he can place his palm on the book.

Beneath his hand, the page curls and blackens, and a wisp of smoke rises from the book.

I jerk fruitlessly against his grip, my mood darkening with every passing second. This spell was supposed to placate my rage, not enflame it. But it’s as though I’m reliving the book burning in my room all over again.

“You think you can break our bond and dispose of me as you did two thousand years ago?”

I sense his own rage rising, and his eyes illuminate with his power. I’m reminded all over again that a sorcerer’s magic draws from their conscience; as they grow stronger, their empathy grows weaker. I’m sensing that Memnon lost most of his back in antiquity.

“You will never be free of me, little witch. Never.”

I stare at the magic sparking in his eyes. I’m coming to find that there is nothing nearly so dangerous as a wronged sorcerer.

Memnon’s hand comes up, wrapping around my throat in the most featherlight grip. But between his spell nailing me to the table, his body pi

“But you are right, I have given you more misery than passion. Perhaps it is time I reminded you of what it means to be with me.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Wait, what?

Before that thought has more than crossed my mind, Memnon kisses me.

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