Either way, it seems like a good idea to end this now—if I can.

I pick up the lantern. Waving my hand over it, I murmur, “With a flicker and a spark, light this candle in the dark.” A tiny flame flickers to life, and I note with relief that this time, the flame doesn’t look demonic.

I step fully inside the room, Nero slipping in after me, and I close the door behind us.

Already, my head is pounding from the conflicting magic in the air.

I set the lantern on the table in the middle of the room, and I close my eyes to better focus my senses.

Now that I’m not looking with my eyes, I swear I feel the prickling awareness of all these spellbooks. Magic is semi-sentient; these grimoires may not have lungs or hearts or brains, but in some innate way, they are alive. And right now, they’re observing me.

With my eyes still closed, I place my hands on the wooden table. “I would like to sever a soul mate bond.” The words feel forbidden. Taboo. “If any of you contain such a spell, I would ask to see it. Please.”

For several long seconds, I hear nothing.

My heart sinks, even as a sliver of relief threads through my system. If it cannot be done, then it absolves me from acting—

I hear the soft scrape of a book sliding out.

I open my eyes in time to see a thin black tome leave one of the shelves high above my head. It flutters down to the table like a falling leaf before landing gently right in front of me.

I barely have time to look at the image stamped on its black cloth cover before it opens itself. The grimoire’s pages flick by, like some phantom hand is thumbing through them. Near the back of the book, it finally stops on a page. There’s an inked drawing of a heart and a handwritten spell penned in German.

I place my hand over the text, taking a moment to compose an incantation.

“Translate to English this spell for me. Make its meaning clear to see.”

The letters jiggle, then morph, and suddenly, I can read it all. A Spell for Severing Amorous Bonds.

I swallow. This may be a mistake.

What may be a mistake, Empress…? Memnon’s voice echoes in my head.

I scowl at the intimate feel of this man inside me. Why don’t you mind your own fucking business? I snap back at him.

On the other end of our bond, the sorcerer seems quiet, pensive. It’s better than the cavalier amusement I felt from him earlier.

There’s a flicker of something on his end of our connection, and then he withdraws completely.

I exhale, and my eyes move over the page in front of me. The bloodthirsty, vicious side of me gets a perverse little thrill at the sight of it.

I tap the spell.

I’m going to do it.

The wind howls as I stand in the spellcasting kitchen deep into the night, my cauldron bubbling.

It took me hours to hunt down the ingredients for this spell, including seawater, roses that bloomed under a full moon, tears from a broken heart (using mine—hope they work), and then some mundane herbs. And to be honest, I didn’t find all the ingredients. But I think I can still make it work.

Using a mortar and pestle, I crush the dried rose petals, then throw them in. The next part is going to be tricky—the recipe called for a dead man’s dreams, but I couldn’t find any of those, so I went to Olga and got the last words of a life cut short.

I bite my lower lip as I stare at the words I copied.

Sounds good. Love you—see you soon.

I try not to shiver at how mundane these last words were. It makes death seem all the more grotesque, to rob someone of their life right in the middle of a perfectly average day.

Instead, I focus on the ingredient itself—should I throw the note into the cauldron or whisper the words over it?

Before I can decide, the front door crashes open, wood splintering as it rips off its hinges. I expect to hear a chorus of screams, but most of, if not all, my sisters have gone to bed, save for a group that left an hour ago for some outdoor spellcasting.

Familiar heavy footfalls stride across the foyer, and my stomach fills with dread.

Memnon fills the doorway, his eyes blazing. They move from my face to the wooden spoon I have in my hand, then the cauldron in front of me.

I move in front of the cauldron, ready to defend my spell. “You do not get to just—”

I yelp as he picks me up and sets me on the island behind me.

He puts a finger up to my face. “Stay,” he growls, his magic coiling around me.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog,” I snap back at him.

I try to hop off the counter, but damn it, he spelled my ass—literally. I can’t get up.

I watch on helplessly as Memnon stalks toward my cauldron and grabs it with his bare hands.

“Memnon, no—”

Before I can even finish my plea, he overturns the thing, dumping its contents out onto the open fire beneath it, dousing the flame and ruining my concoction.

I make a horrified sound and stare aghast at the ruins of my spell.

Memnon turns back to me, his chest heaving and his palms blistered from where he held the cauldron. “You were trying to break our bond!” he roars.

Upstairs, I hear someone yell, “Shut up!”

“Goddess above, lower your voice,” I whisper. “You’re going to wake up the whole coven.” I’m skating on thin enough ice as it is.

“Even after enduring your betrayal and your desertion, est amage, I would never dare to break what is ours and ours alone!” His voice rises until he is bellowing the words.

“Maybe if you had spent the past several weeks trying to be my friend instead of making my life miserable, I wouldn’t be attempting to break our bond.”

His expression flickers, like he may feel regret or shame, but I’m not done.

“I swear to the goddess,” I continue, “the moment you leave my sight, I will start the process all over again.”

It seems like Memnon grows taller, wider. He steps between my legs, looking menacing, lethal.

“No,” he says softly, “you won’t.” The sorcerer places his hands on either side of my head, his eyes flinty.

I jerk against his touch. “Let me go.”

“Your mind isn’t the only one that can steal memories,” he says, those smoky eyes piercing.

I go still at what he’s hinting at. “You wouldn’t,” I breathe.

He smiles. “Of course I would. I already have.”

“You’ve taken my memories?” My voice is unnaturally quiet as I speak. Dark, roiling fury builds beneath my veins.

“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.