A wave of nausea rolls through me, partially from the migraine, partially from the sheer quantity of memories that have been shoved back in my brain. All of them demand my attention, but especially the strange, alien, old memories.

I now focus on that other life, Roxilana’s life.

My life, I correct myself. My first one.

It unspools behind my eyes like some awful movie. The battles, the death, the sheer desperation to survive.

The sweetest, most beautiful part of that life was Memnon, that insufferable bastard. I hate that tonight, on the heels of one of the worst evenings of my life, when I should revile the sorcerer more than ever, my head is filled with memories of his touches, his whispered pledges of undying love, and his sheer magnetism. It drew me to him over and over again when I was Roxilana, and damn it, it draws me to him even now.

Back in that ancient life, he fought for me and fiercely loved me. He crossed Europe to find me, then made me his queen. And he became one of the most powerful, monstrous men in the ancient world so that I could have my heart’s desire. We had the sort of love that’s so sharply wonderful it borders on pain.

Until, of course, the moment it all fell apart.

And it fell apart just as spectacularly as it began.

In the distance, a metal door hisses open, the sound scattering my thoughts.

I lift my head, wondering if I’m about to be questioned. My exhaustion surges at the thought. I don’t think I have the energy to effectively plead my innocence, even though I now have the memories to prove it.

I hear the low tones of an officer speaking to the man on duty down here. Then two sets of footfalls head toward my cell. One of them I’d recognize from anywhere, the sure, heavy sound of that stride drawing out goose bumps. A moment later, a ribbon of twisting, indigo magic moves toward the bars of my cell.

Memnon.

The ache in me deepens. Yet after all he did tonight, I have anger to match my hurt. It’s buried under the pain of my migraine, but how it burns.

Memnon’s magic reaches between the iron bars of my cell, but instead of passing through, his power sizzles against some ward, the wispy blue smoke recoiling from the contact.

“These are neutralizing cells,” a masculine voice explains. “No magic gets in or out. They’re spelled to keep inmates from using their power.”

Inmates like me, he means.

“You’ve subjected my fiancée to this?” Memnon says, menace dripping from his voice. My stomach bottoms out at that word. Fiancée. I think I might’ve liked inmate better.

“I assure you, there was a warrant for her arrest⁠—”

“She was arrested and detained under false allegations,” Memnon cuts in, his tone sharp as a blade. “I expect your department to make amends for this.”

The fucking audacity of this man to demand anything from the Politia when he was the one who truly placed me here.

His heavy, ominous footfalls come to a stop right in front of my cell. Even with the jail cell suppressing my magic, I can sense the throb of the sorcerer’s presence, his power spilling out of him.

It’s that staggering power that got me into this mess in the first place. A sorcerer’s magic eats away at their conscience, so the more powerful they grow, the more heartless they become. And my soul mate is both very, very powerful and very, very heartless.

“Est amage.”

I don’t react. I’m too exhausted to react.

The officer unlocks the cell, the door clanging as he opens it.

“Miss Bowers, it seems the department made a mistake with your arrest,” he says dispassionately. “Please accept our apologies. You are now free to go.” He steps aside to make room for me.

I draw in a long and defeated breath. I don’t like sitting in this cold, dank cell, where my power is muted, but I’m even less eager to run into the arms of my vengeful soul mate.

“Pouting is so very unlike you, fiancée.”

That damn word. It makes my temples pound harder.

I lift my head to stare at the cinder-block wall ahead of me. “I don’t want to leave with him,” I say to the officer.

I sense the man looking between me and Memnon. “Miss,” he finally says, “you don’t—” His words cut off suddenly.

“Hey!” the officer on duty shouts. “What do you think—?” His voice, too, abruptly cuts off, and a moment later, I hear the dull thud of his body hitting the ground somewhere in the distance.

Finally, I glance over, only to see my soul mate gripping the officer by the back of his neck. The man’s eyelids flutter, and I know with stomach-curdling clarity that Memnon is altering yet another mind tonight. He already did this to a room full of my peers shortly after he nearly killed them all.

Once Memnon finally releases the officer, the man calmly walks back the way he came, not bothering to look at either of us. Nor does he stop to check on the other officer on duty down here.

And now I’m alone with the sorcerer.

I still don’t meet his eyes. “I’m not going with you,” I say.

“I’m not giving you a choice,” he says.

He takes an ominous step forward into the cell, then another and another. Before I can think better of it, I scramble to my feet. The action wakes up all my aches and pains, and I nearly collapse under the onslaught of them all.

Cursing, Memnon closes the distance between us and catches my swaying form.

And now, cradled in his arms, I do finally look at my soul mate.

I drink in his bronze skin, his black, wavy hair, and those mesmerizing eyes, which are dark brown at their edges and light like bourbon near the pupil. It’s only been hours since I saw him last, but my eyes rove over his subtly hooked nose and full, curving lips, his high cheekbones and knife-sharp jawline. Finally, they snag on the scar that runs up from that jawline to his left ear, then cuts across to the corner of his left eye.

It’s like seeing a specter, and for a moment, old memories eclipse the new ones. I reach out, my fingers grazing his cheek.

Memnon’s expression softens at the touch, and that’s all that’s needed for the rest of our past to overtake my addled mind.

“Est xsaya. Est Memnon,” I whisper. “Vak watam singasavak.”

My king. My Memnon. You survived.

Some terrifying emotion wells up in me. It feels like a serrated knife, carving me up from the inside out. I can’t place what it is I feel or why I feel it, but I do know that if Memnon wasn’t already holding me, my legs would buckle.

This close to me, I see his pupils dilate, and he goes still. “You remember,” Memnon says almost desperately.

“Of course I remember. You forced me to.”

And now all that anger swells back up in me. I pinch my eyes shut and weakly try to push away from him, even as my skull throbs and my stomach churns.

“Oh no, little witch,” he says softly, fondly. “I’m not letting you go now.” He hoists me more fully into his arms and strides out of the room.

The moment we cross that magical threshold that separates the neutralizing cells from the hallway, my power floods my body, the sensation so sudden and sharp that I gag.

In an instant, Memnon’s own magic swarms me, slipping into my mouth and down my throat, settling my nausea.

I release a shaky breath and lean tiredly against the sorcerer’s chest. I note absently that he’s changed out of his tuxedo, exchanging it for a black fitted thermal, black jeans, and boots.

“Does anything else hurt?” he asks, his tone gentle—far too gentle.

Everything else hurts—my head, my joints, my very skin. But most of all, my heart.

“Isn’t this your moment to gloat?” I say instead as I’m carried down the empty cellblock. “You’ve defeated me in all ways.”

Memnon’s magic stretches out and opens the heavy metal door ahead of us. “I will gloat when my future wife feels better.”