“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. Louder, he says, “Of course I do. But not when you’re half dead and delirious from blood loss.”

“I’m not delirious,” I say, even as I sway.

Memnon steps into the last of my personal space and takes one of my arms. He focuses on scrubbing up and down it. “You are,” he insists. “Besides,” he adds, moving to my other arm, “I got the impression I was in your bed yesterday because of a potion and nothing more.”

I frown, not liking how my reasons sound coming out of his lips. Especially not after Memnon helped me this evening. I hadn’t commanded him to come, and I didn’t need some fancy friendship pact for him to show up. It’s just what Memnon does for me, what he’s always done for me.

He continues washing my body, the strokes of his hands decidedly not sexual, even as they move over my torso.

“It’s annoying when you’re honorable,” I say.

He grabs more soap, then kneels down to wash my legs.

“Why is that?”

The steam is getting to me. I feel lightheaded, nauseous.

“It makes it harder to hate you,” I confess.

Memnon glances up from where he kneels, the water slicking his hair back. I reach out for his face just as I sway again.

“Selene—”

My vision darkens. When it clears again, I’m in the sorcerer’s arms, and the water is cooling.

“Did I pass out?” I ask, my torso pressed against his. I’m about eye level with his pecs, and I get an intimate view of the dragon tattoo over his heart.

“I caught you,” he says, keeping me upright.

I draw my gaze up, meeting his eyes. His hands stay on me, and though I don’t necessarily need the continued support, I don’t move out of his embrace. I think we’re both fooling ourselves about how weak I am until I begin to shiver.

“Shit.” Memnon uses one hand to pull me in closer to him and the other to nudge up the temperature until it’s lukewarm.

Still, my shivers don’t fully abate.

“I want to get you out of here,” he says, frowning. “You’re still lightheaded.”

His fretting is disarming.

“Just a little longer,” I insist. I still feel like I have dirt in my hair and dark magic on my skin. I press my cheek against his chest. “I trust you to keep me safe.”

I can’t see his face, but his hold tightens on me.

Without letting me go, he reaches for a bottle of shampoo and gets a little on his hand. Indigo magic flows out of him, wrapping around my midsection and holding me up so he can scrub my hair with both hands.

I stare up at him. The two of us are caught between hate and love, and we’ve found a tentative alliance right in between the two. Memnon is doing everything he can to prevent me from hating him again, and I’m doing what I can to not topple headfirst into caring about him.

He tilts my head back to wash off the shampoo.

“Did you see who was attacking Nero?” he asks.

I close my eyes, my nausea rising again at the memory.

“They were all witches, I think. Two of them…” My voice catches. I open my eyes. “Two of them live in my house at Henbane.”

Memnon’s eyes are sharp as he watches me.

“One of them told me that Lia was looking for me.”

The sorcerer’s expression darkens, growing cold and determined.

“I think these witches might’ve been working for her, but I don’t know,” I finish.

It’s quiet for several seconds.

“Do you know the names of these witches?” Memnon finally asks. A chilling ruthlessness has entered his voice.

I hesitate.

“I only know one of their names, and only her first name—Yasmin.”

Memnon’s features smooth, turning placid. That expression is more terrifying than his anger. It’s the face he wears as a warlord.

“Memnon, I don’t want you to hurt her,” I say.

His eyes begin to glow a little as his magic wells. “She sought to kill your familiar. She hurt you. It’s too late for her, est amage. She is borrowing air at this point.”

“She’s a coven sister, and she might be involved in something against her will,” I say.

“I don’t care.” It’s truly that simple for him too. Yasmin hurt me, so now she must die.

“You won’t hurt her,” I order.

The sorcerer’s jaw tightens, and his eyes glow brighter. “Fine.” He bites the word out, and to give him credit, he uses it exactly as I have been using it—to cover an obvious lie.

I reach out and turn off the water, thoroughly worn out by the evening. Memnon uses his magic to call a towel to him. He wraps it around me as another floats over and fits itself around his waist.

The tension in the room once again is thick enough to slice into, only now it’s fueled by frustration, not chemistry. Memnon isn’t used to truly being hemmed in. It seems the bond he forged with me is finally getting to him.

I’ve barely finished drying when the sorcerer’s magic whisks away our towels. He scoops me up then and carries me into the bed, setting me gently on the mattress and tucking me in.

“Do you want something to sleep in?” he asks.

My eyes are already closing. I’m beyond caring. “This is fine.” It’s not like he hasn’t already seen everything.

Memnon moves away from the bed, toward his closet, stalking around the room like a caged panther. It barely registers until he exits the room altogether.

Memnon, I call tiredly down our bond.

Yes, little witch?

Where did you go? I ask.

I’m letting you sleep.

Oh.

Several seconds go by, and I think I drift a little, only to wake feeling agitated.

Memnon?

Yes?

I can’t be sure, but he sounds a little amused.

Will you…come back?

The other side of the bond is quiet, but a minute later, Memnon returns to the room wearing only a low slung pair of sweats. He stands just inside the doorway for several seconds.

I’m half-asleep when I reach for him.

It seems to take another small eternity before he moves to me and takes my hand, threading his fingers between mine.

I blink sleepily at him.

Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? I want to ask him for more, but I’m not brave enough.

Memnon uses his other hand to run his knuckles over my cheek.

Of course, Empress.

He releases my hand and gets on the bed then. I flip over, curling my body toward his.

“Good night, wife,” he murmurs.

“Former wife,” I whisper, correcting him.

“Future wife,” he corrects me.

Sleep presses in, pulling me under. I’m too tired to argue further.

The last thing I sense before I fall asleep is Memnon’s hand running over my wet hair and this sharp, almost agonized love trickling into me from our bond.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I feel the brush of fingers against my hair.

I need to take care of a few things, est amage. I will be back soon.

But perhaps Memnon’s words were just a dream, because when I wake, he’s there, pressing kisses to my skin. Against my throat, at the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and down my arm.

I should push him away, but my bond is singing, and the kisses feel like wish fulfillment.

Good morning, future wife, he says when he notices me waking, propping himself on a forearm. He’s still above the sheets, and I don’t know why, but that is disappointing to me. Which is absurd.

I forbid you from calling me that, I say, brushing my tangled hair back from my face.

Good morning, fiancée, he corrects.

That too.

Good morning, my vicious queen who demands the blood of our enemies.

I smile.

Another kiss to my shoulder. You liked that one, he says, noticing.

You know, you’re my enemy too, I remind him.