The sorcerer’s eyes twinkle, and his lips curve up playfully. “Just when I assumed you could not get any more innocent, you go and hide yourself in a future that is even more…civilized than the Roman one you were raised in.”

“What happened to the king who did this to you?”

“I ran him through with my sword. And then I made his skull into a wine chalice.”

What?

“You’re lying,” I say.

“I’m not. It was one of my favorites.” He says it so calmly that fuck, if that’s true…

I shrink away from him.

Memnon frowns at my reaction. “It was the custom of our warriors to do such things. Just as it was custom that every Sarmatian woman ride into battle and kill at least one enemy before she was allowed to marry.”

What?

He stares at my shocked expression, something sad entering his eyes. “You had the same reactions the first time you learned these things. It is both a wonder and a heartbreak to see it all over again.”

I clear my throat. “I’m still trying to get over the fact you drank wine from the skulls of your enemies.” Not sure I’m ever going to get over that fact.

Memnon gives me a tight smile; then his eyes drop to my body, his gaze lingering on my ravaged shoulder. “I need to finish healing you, Empress. I’m going to have to roll you onto your stomach.”

I start to flip myself over, but then his hands are there, guiding me so I don’t jostle my injuries.

Gently, he removes the last of my shredded clothing still clinging to my back. Once the cool air kisses my skin, Memnon inhales sharply, presumably at the sight of my injuries.

“To think you never once believed yourself a true warrior-queen,” he mutters under his breath. I’m pretty sure the reference applies to Roxilana, not me. “You carry battle wounds that would make the fiercest of my fighters proud.”

“It’s that bad?” Memnon’s earlier spell is still blocking me from feeling pain.

The sorcerer runs a light hand around the injuries, and I close my eyes at the touch. It still feels unnervingly good.

“Heal these wounds,” he murmurs in Sarmatian. “Mend the flesh. Remake it as it was.”

His magic feels like a warm breath against my back. And then that warmth seeps into my skin, turning uncomfortable—almost itchy—and I know even without looking that the flesh is reforming, the wounds healing.

I lie there confused about how the evening went from me attending a spell circle for a little extra cash to being nearly killed by bloodthirsty witches and now being healed by my mortal enemy.

The warm press of magic fades, and Memnon smooths his hand down my back. I exhale at the sensation of his palm against my skin. There’s just something about the feel of his hands—hands that have led armies and killed and lifted chalices made from his foes’ skulls—that’s so damn intoxicating.

Pretty sure enjoying this makes me a rotten human. Oh well, maybe I’ll care tomorrow.

Memnon pauses, as though he senses my thoughts.

“Est amage,” he murmurs, “do you like that? I will keep touching you if you do. All you have to say is the word, and it is yours.”

Shit, maybe he does know my thoughts.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my nose. I sense that everything with this man comes at a price. He’s not naming it, but it must be there.

But given all that’s happened tonight…screw it.

“I like it,” I admit.

His hand doesn’t move. Why is his hand not moving? I wiggle a little, trying to get it going.

“Let me see your face,” he demands.

I turn to look at him. “Why?”

His eyes gaze at me intensely. “Because you are the only thing worth looking at, and my eyes have missed you.”

I frown. “I thought you hated me.”

He leans forward and runs a knuckle down my spine, and I feel myself arch, stretching like a cat against his touch. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Empress.”

I understand what he means. I want to hate this man’s guts—I know I should—but I don’t.

“Close your eyes and relax, and I will touch you,” he says.

I narrow my gaze. “Why should I trust you?”

He flashes me a sly smile. “You make a good point. There is only one person in the entire world who truly can trust me, and I’m staring at her.” His hand smooths over my back again, and I bite back the sound that wants to come out.

Going to make the supremely bad decision to trust this man because why not? I’ve already made fifty other bad choices; what’s one more?

So I close my eyes and let myself relax.

Nero must sense the shift in the room because he hops off the bed then. Several seconds later, I hear the click of his claws against the windowsill, followed by the rustle of the oak tree outside as my familiar flees the current situation. And to think that only a short while ago Nero scoffed at the thought of my bringing boys over. I’d say the joke’s on him, except I’m the one who’s half dead yet still enjoying the touch of my enemy.

So the joke is most definitely on me.

Memnon’s hand continues to move over me, skimming along my back, and it feels so damn good, it should be illegal. Up and down, up and down. The longer it goes, the more restless I get.

Not enough.

“More,” I plead so softly, I’m not sure he can hear me. The truth is that I’m not at all confident in making demands of him. Not after everything he’s already done for me tonight.

His hand stills, and there’s a long pause.

“What was that?” he says.

I’m not going to say it again. I’m not—

“More,” I say again, louder.

After a moment, Memnon’s hand moves again. “More what?” he says, and now I swear there’s a wicked edge to his words, as though he’s toying with me. But I can’t be sure.

I shift under his hand, my skin so sensitive. “I—I don’t know,” I admit, my eyes still closed.

I feel the brush of his lips against my ear. “You should never ask me for things you do not mean, Empress,” he says, his voice pitched low. “But I think you do know what you want more of. And I think it frightens you.”

I swallow, goose bumps breaking out along my flesh.

A second passes. Then two, then three.

“Do you still want more?” Memnon breathes against me.

I don’t even bother lying to myself. “Yes.”

Memnon doesn’t respond, but several seconds later, the bed dips, and I feel his powerful thighs on either side of my own.

His hands return to my back, kneading my muscles. It feels erotic, even though it shouldn’t. It’s just a back massage.

There is no reason why I should be getting turned on by this. But moldy fucking toadstools, I am getting turned on. There’s an ache between my legs. And it’s growing and growing.

“Next time, est amage, I will make you tell me what you want—”

A moan slips out of me. I don’t mean for it to escape, but there it is.

Behind me, Memnon pauses.

“Then again,” he says, “that works too.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks, but I refuse to be embarrassed.

I begin to flip over, and Memnon lifts himself a little so I can finish turning onto my back. I stare up at the ancient king.

From this position he looks impossibly big, his shoulders massive, his torso made from muscle and sinew alone. And that wicked face, with his sharp cheekbones and gleaming eyes.

I draw in a shaky breath. “You want to know what I want?”

What’s one more bad decision?

I sit up, hook an arm around his neck, and pull Memnon to me, and then I kiss him.

He tastes like sin and nostalgia. I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him down as I fall back against my bed.

With a groan he sinks onto me, his mouth searing against mine. I’ve kissed him more than once, and yet this feels like the first true one we’ve had. His tongue strokes mine, and I remember all over again how much more electric everything is with this sorcerer.