Chapter 32
I stare out at the dark forest that surrounds our house as evening falls. Somewhere out there Nero is lurking.
Other things lurk in that darkness as well.
Opening the French doors at the back of the living room, I step out onto the patio.
The stone beneath my bare feet is chilly, but I hardly notice as I pass the couches and firepit arranged out here, then the grill and bar.
Water drops cling to the grass as I cross to the edge of the lawn. Beyond it, the shadowy forest looks particularly ominous.
Leaving the grass behind, I step onto the moist earth, the ripe smell of wood and petrichor hanging in the air.
I walk between the tall trees like I’m in a dream. Pine needles and dead leaves crunch beneath my feet, and the boughs brush me as I pass them. I can feel the darkness stroking my skin like a lover, calling to my magic.
At some random place, I pause, my eyes moving to the ground beneath me.
“Hungering Ones.”
I stop and listen, but other than the usual insect noises and bird calls, the forest is silent. My hair stirs in the light evening breeze.
Naturally they’re not around when I actually want them to be.
I gaze down at the ground even as my hand reaches for one of my daggers, the twin set strapped to my waist.
Drawing it, I bring the sharpened tip of it to my pointer finger.
All it takes is a swift, shallow cut. My blood spills forth from it surprisingly fast, drop after drop falling to the ground.
Now I sense something stirring deep beneath the soles of my feet.
“Empressss …”
“You made a deal with me once,” I state without preamble. “Why?”
“We hunger…and you fed us…for many moons…”
I shake my head. “That’s not it though, is it?” I say. “I know a bit more about you. You didn’t feed from me, you kept me,” I say. “Worse—I was once one of your voices. I was a part of you.”
A gust of wind punctuates my words, stirring my hair around me.
“Yesssss…”
I try not to shudder at the horror of it. Softer, I say, “I know what you really want.”
The voices are quiet.
My wound drips, more of that crimson fluid sinking into the damp earth.
“Not blood. Not bodies,” I say. “You want another soul.”
The voices fall silent.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my soul mate inserting herself into trouble.”
I swivel around, and there’s Memnon, his tie gone and the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair is tousled like he ran his fingers through it many times.
He’s far too wild for the confines of business attire, but damn, does it suit him.
He steps forward, his shoes crunching menacingly over the foliage, shaking his head slowly.
“Yesterday you drank fae wine with the deadliest of enemies, and today you let another feast on your blood, as though they haven’t ripped open the very earth you stand on so they might swallow you whole.
I am starting to think, dear mate, that you have a death wish.
” As he says it, his eyes alight, and his power spins out of him, enveloping us both into its billowy folds, and I sense that he is deeply angry.
I move to sheathe the dagger I still hold.
“No,” he says, catching my wrist, his voice deepening. “You will need all your violence against my wrath.”
“Funny,” I say, tugging my wrist from his grip and sheathing my dagger anyway, “you’ve talked about liking my anger.” I step in a little closer to him. “But I’ve never admitted how much I enjoy yours.”
Memnon grasps me by the back of my head and, leaning down, kisses me roughly. I can practically taste his anger.
“You will not leave me,” he commands against my lips, backing us up until I bump into a tree.
“Not to the likes of Eislyn or the Hungering Ones or anyone else,” he says, slipping into Sarmatian.
“Or else I will chain you to our bed and leave you there to deal with my anger until it is satiated—and, my queen, my anger is never satiated.”
I shiver at the dark threat, yet the chill sliding through me has nothing to do with fear.
I kiss Memnon harder, twining my arms around his neck. He lifts one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist, then the other, and I think that maybe he’s planning on recreating our forest tryst from Samhain night.
Instead, he turns and begins carrying me back to the house.
“Where are we going?” I breathe against him.
Memnon’s power has retreated, turning his eyes back to their normal smoky amber hue.
“Oh, don’t worry, little witch,” he responds against my lips, “I still intend to punish you. But not while your nose and feet are cold.”
I nearly laugh at the sentiment. Back in Sarmatia, a night like this was hardly cold—he and I both know that.
“You’ve become a big softy,” I tease, playing with his hair.
“Say that again when my cock is buried inside you,” he dares me, but he’s smiling fondly down at me.
I laugh against him, tightening my hold on his neck and waist.
The sound makes his grin grow larger, and I catch a glimpse of his wolfish canines. And I kiss him again because staring at him makes me feel like I can fly.
“This is the sweetness that I killed armies for,” he whispers against my lips, his breath misting around us. His expression turns pleading as he pulls away. “I cannot lose you, little witch. You are my everything.”
I stroke his face. “I’m not going anywhere. I swear it.”
“Good,” he says. His happy expression falls away. “I wasn’t just coming out here to find you. I also have important news.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What is it?”
“I found Eislyn in the Fortuna’s ledger,” Memnon says grimly, “and her involvement in the trafficking ring is worse than we suspected.”