Memnon groans.

I draw in a deep breath. We’re meeting Kane and his pack at five o’clock tonight to discuss it.

The moment I mention Kane, there’s a shift in Memnon’s energy.

I’ll pick you up at four thirty in front of your house. I can’t wait to fuck with the wolves.

Memnon.

I’m kidding, Empress. I’ll only fuck with Kane.

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

OceanofPDF.com

CHAPTER 30

I’ve just sent my mom her daily text and started reading up about contraceptive spells on the steps of the residence hall when Memnon tears through the front gates of Henbane on his motorcycle. Once again he’s not wearing a helmet, and my worry rises.

Ugh, I’m worried about him. I have it bad. And that’s saying nothing about that annoying, happy warmth pooling in my belly at the sight of him.

I tuck my phone away, sparing a glance at Nero, who is busy trying—and failing—to catch a butterfly with his teeth. My familiar has forgotten for a moment that he’s supposed to be a proud, majestic creature.

Memnon pulls into a parking spot near where I parked his car and cuts the engine, grimacing as he swings himself off his seat. As soon as he sees me, his previous expression is wiped clean, and his gaze deepens. I get the distinct impression he’s vividly remembering our night together.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Memnon comes over to me then, his shoulders set a little rigidly, his stride a little stiff. A spark of unease moves through me, even as he takes me by the chin and presses an ardent kiss to my lips.

I guess we’re greeting by way of kissing now.

More warmth pools in my belly. Ugh, but I like that too.

My arms go around him to pull him closer to me when I feel wetness at his back. His shirt is drenched.

“Is this…” I’m about to say sweat when the sorcerer sags a little in my arms.

Seven hells.

“Memnon?” I say, alarmed.

He locks his knees, straightening back up. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”

I move my hand away from his back, sucking in a breath when I see the blood smeared all over it.

“You’re hurt.” I mean for it to be accusing, but my tone comes out soft and concerned. Fuck, I am concerned.

“It is nothing to worry about,” Memnon says as he winces.

“I’ll decide that for myself,” I say, trying to think over the pounding of my heart. “Why didn’t you heal yourself?”

He sways, the movement so subtle I might not have noticed it if he were someone less familiar to me.

“I was ordered not to,” he admits.

So this was some punishment he was supposed to bear out.

My brows draw together. “But you only answer to me,” I say, not following.

He nods in agreement, and now I’m really not following.

“Couldn’t you have healed yourself?” I ask slowly. “Or at least taken away your own pain?”

“I am a Sarmatian king, born to a warrior queen, raised from birth to fight⁠—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry I asked.” Memnon is apparently only practical when it comes to my injuries.

I press a hand lightly to his back and incant in Sarmatian, “Banish the pain to the far corners of the world.”

Thick plumes of my magic spread out beneath my palm, moving across the expanse of his back before sinking in.

Memnon gives me an arch look, like he disapproves of what I’m doing.

“Arguing is useless. I’m not going to let you walk around in pain just because you can bear it.”

Memnon’s bourbon eyes flicker, then soften. He’s a hard man, and I know from memory that he hates being fussed over. I also know nothing leveled him like when I took care of him in the past.

Even now, I can feel a whisper of adoration down our bond.

I look him over again. “I’m not leaving you like this.” I maneuver myself so that I’m wedged under his arm.

“Selene—”

“Arguing really is useless,” I remind him. “If you resist, I’ll simply command you to follow me.”

He huffs but lets me gingerly wrap my arm around his back. With a little help from my magic, I lead Memnon toward my house. Nero reluctantly leaves the butterfly, trailing after us.

Once we’re at the front door, the Medusa door knocker comes to life.

“Memnon the Indomitable, king of nomads, smiter of armies, what business do you have here?”

The knocker’s never done this before. Someone must have refreshed the house’s wards. Sure enough, when I focus on the air above the threshold, I make out the glinting edges of the ward’s magical, silver writing.

“He’s with me.” I grab the handle and shove the door open.

I force the sorcerer through the ward, the spell resisting him for only a moment before it lets him pass. I hold the door open long enough for my shadowy familiar to slip in as well.

The foyer smells like someone’s opened a portal to hell, the smell of sulfur thick in the air.

“Sorry! Sorry!” a witch in the spell kitchen shouts. “I fucked up!”

“Dude, were you trying to summon an imp?” says another witch in the kitchen.

Their conversation drifts away as I drag Memnon to the library on my right. Despite the chatter in the rest of the house, no one is in here at the moment, affording us a sliver of privacy.

The wall sconces buzz and the light flickers precariously as I lead Memnon deep into the room so that we’re hidden by aisles of books. I stop us at a scarlet couch.

“Sit,” I command, “and lean forward.”

My beloved queen, Memnon protests, even as he does what I say, this is not necessary.

“I disagree,” I reply as I follow him down to the couch. My heart has been beating a mile a minute since I discovered his injury. I don’t think I’ll be capable of relaxing until I’m sure he is okay.

Nero sits down next to Memnon’s legs, leaning against them for support. I see my sorcerer place a hand on the panther’s head, and a lump forms in my throat. Nero genuinely cares for Memnon, and Memnon genuinely cares for him.

I force my gaze to return to my mate’s back. My teeth scour my lower lip as I stare at his drenched black shirt. It’s so wet it clings to his back. That’s all blood.

I reach for the hem of it, then hesitate.

I’m…afraid.

“You don’t have to do this,” Memnon says over his shoulder.

“No one is compelling me to do anything,” I say brusquely. “I…want to help.”

I feel a burst of—of love from Memnon’s side of the bond. I don’t let myself linger on it, though I badly want to.

Instead, I draw in a fortifying breath, then grab the hem of his shirt. I peel it slowly away from his skin, hissing in a breath at the sight before me.

Crisscrossing his back are strips of open wounds, the skin split and jagged. There are over a dozen of them, each one oozing blood and a black, oily substance.

Seven hells. The wounds are cursed.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask, trying to understand the extent of the damage.

Already my magic pours out of me, thick clouds of it settling over his injuries. The frayed edges of his skin reach for each other, but the dark magic forces them apart just as quickly.

“Hours,” Memnon says.

“You were commanded not to heal yourself?” I ask, my mind racing to remember the curse-breaking spell Memnon used on me.

He nods reluctantly.

So Patrick, the mage he was supposedly bonded to, must’ve ordered the punishment. But it was an order Memnon didn’t need to follow. The forced bond between him and the mage is entirely fabricated; Memnon has never been under its sway.

I set my remaining questions aside for the moment.

I glance around at the shelves and shelves of books. Any one of them might have instructions on curse breaking. And if I enter the little room at the back of the library, I’ll have access to many, many grimoires that might have the spell I need.