“What is it?” she asks.

“Memnon.”

“Do you see him?” she asks. “Where is he?” She peers around me as though she might spot him.

I have the oddest urge to laugh at her. “Do you even know what he looks like?” I ask.

“No, but all assholes have a look to them. I’m sure I could pick him out of this crowd.”

Now I do laugh. “I can hear him,” I admit. I touch my temple. “In here.”

My friend’s brows rise. “Oh—oh. Right. You have freaky soul mate powers.”

I glance surreptitiously around us, but I don’t see Memnon. He’s clearly toying with me.

Worse, it’s working.

Fun is the absolute last thing on my mind right now. Instead, all my anger and resentment and shame and worry—all those ugly emotions rise in me, along with a few others, like excitement, hope, and a breathless, flighty feeling I won’t put a name to.

We reach the pyramid of booze, and the two of us grab glasses. But as I stare at the brew I hold, I scowl.

“I can’t do it,” I admit.

“Can’t do what?” Sybil asks as she takes a sip of her drink.

I can’t continue to drink and laugh and pretend. Goddess, I don’t want to pretend anymore.

“I need to find Memnon and deal with him.” As I speak the words, I feel the absolute truth of them. I hand my friend my drink. “Can you take this back to our table and save it for me?”

“But, Selene—”

“Please, Sybil.” I give her a beseeching look. “I’ll only be gone a moment.” I force out a smile. “Then we can have fun together. In earnest.”

She exhales but then nods. “Okay, yeah, fine. You deal with the loser and then find me.” My friend gives me a playful look. “But don’t take too long, or else I’ll drink your brew for you.”

This time, I give her a real smile. “Deal.”

Once Sybil leaves my sight, I prowl the aisles of plants, making my way around whispering couples. I pass them, threading through the conservatory until I reach a lonely corner of it that is clear of all guests.

The notes of some tragic song drifting in the air and the distant murmuring of voices are the only clues that a party is in full swing at the moment.

Where are you? I call to Memnon down our bond.

My hands fist a little, and already, my thirst for revenge is mounting. I’m vividly imagining getting a good swing at the sorcerer or maybe kneeing him in the balls. Magic is leaking from my hands at the prospect.

Around me, the air stirs; then a broad chest brushes against my back.

“Right here, little witch,” he breathes against my ear.

My pulse spikes at his voice and his nearness, and I spin to face him.

Now is my opening. If ever I wanted to get a move in while he’s unsuspecting, now would be it.

Instead, I hesitate, my vengeance taking a back seat to this breathless excitement I feel at the sight of him. A sobering thought comes to me then: no matter how much I rage against Memnon, he will always be the man my eyes search for in a room, and his features are the ones I’ll crave. The crush I had on Kane is nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to this.

Memnon’s own eyes drink me in. “You have never needed magic, est amage,” he murmurs, his roughened voice drawing out goose bumps on my arms. “You are entirely bewitching even without it.”

I lift my chin a little. “Were you hoping I’d be a mess tonight now that you burned my notebooks? That I’d be begging you to return my memories back to me?”

“Mmm…” The noise he makes sounds more like a growl than anything else. “I do like the idea of you begging, est amage. You always made such…convincing arguments.”

I don’t know if it’s a memory or my imagination, but for a split second, I have an image of myself on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth—

It disappears as quickly as it came, but it leaves me breathless and flushed.

Memnon’s eyes drop to one of my reddened cheeks, and he strokes the skin there. “Beautiful, intoxicating witch,” he breathes.

He leans in, almost as though he can’t help it, those tempting lips skimming my skin, daring me to push him away.

I don’t know what spell he’s using, but right in this moment, our insurmountable issues seem to dissolve into nothing. When Memnon is this close to me, it all becomes very simple.

He’s mine.

His lips skim down my jaw. “Something I discovered after I first met you is that if I kiss you right here—” He brushes his lips against the side of my neck, right under my pulse point, and a shiver wracks my body. He smiles against my throat. “You do just that.”

I tilt my head back even as I lean into the kiss, one of my hands moving to his hair. I thread my fingers through his dark locks, wanting to keep him against me. I crave more than his mouth on my throat and our bodies pressed together like this.

I want to push him down and yank open his starched white shirt. I want to hear buttons popping. I want his skin against mine.

I want him to flash me that pirate smile of his while I have my way with him and put an end to this fire he’s lit in me.

He burned your notebooks—your memories. Do not climb the man like a tree. Make him pay.

I nearly gasp at the sobering thought. My fingers loosen from his hair, and I stiffen in his arms—when did his arms snake their way around me?

Fuck, this is exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do tonight.

It takes a ridiculous amount of self-possession, but I manage to bring my palms up to his chest, admiring for a moment that his pecs feel so good. Isn’t that silly, that pecs can feel—?

Fuck, concentrate, Selene.

Roughly, I push Memnon away, adding a little magic into the action to move his massive body.

The sorcerer staggers back, his expression lust drunk as his eyes move to my lips.

“You destroyed my journals and the years of memories in them,” I remind us both.

Some of the haze fades from Memnon’s face.

“Is this your attempt at making me feel regret?” he says, wiping his lip with his thumb. “Guilt? Shame?” His hand drops, and his features grow serious. “Because, my queen, this is absolutely what victory feels like.”

“Victory Over what? Our highly dysfunctional relationship?”

Memnon smiles down at me. “I have anticipated this evening for a long, long time.”

My brows draw together, even as unease coils in my belly. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’ve done with all the time we’ve been apart?” he asks, tilting his head.

I never knew.

He shakes his head slowly. “There is so much you don’t know about who I am.” Memnon steps in close. “Like you, est amage, it is not in my nature to grovel. I am in the business of power.” He puts a finger beneath my chin and tilts my head up. “And you, my love, are wholly unready for it.”

I search his eyes. This is where I need to pull away. Or attack. But he has me bewitched, both by his look and his touch.

“Even as a king, I would ride into battle with my horde.” His voice grows soft, intimate, and he’s switched to speaking Sarmatian. “But sometimes, when I faced a particularly obstinate foe, or one I wanted to make an example of, I would leave my warriors a ways away from the battlefield, and I would ride in alone.” As he speaks, the lanterns above us dim, as though shrinking from whatever ominous story Memnon is set on telling me.

“Do you know why I would face my worst opponents alone?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I say softly.

He flashes me a whisper of a smile, though it holds no actual humor.

“Sorcerers have vast amounts of power, but when used in such large quantities, our magic can grow a bit…feral.”

I think he’s about to tell me the story of how he lost his conscience to his power.

Instead, he says, “The stronger the magic we cast, the less we can control who that magic touches. Friends—and family—are always in danger when we let it loose.” He pauses to let that sink in. “So I would face my enemies alone, and the fearsome, obstinate rulers I faced would see firsthand the sort of destruction I could wreak.”