Chapter 3
The city is nearly unrecognizable from the one in my memory, save for a few obvious monuments that have endured entire eras of human history. In fact, had I not seen photos and videos of modern Rome, I might not have recognized it.
Memnon steps up beside me, and the two of us stare at the cars rushing along the street ahead of us.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Remember the surprise I mentioned earlier?” he asks.
I nod absently. This morning, when I left his house for Henbane, he had mentioned a surprise, one he intended to give me before our wedding.
“This is it,” he says. “I married you once in Rome. I figured that we would come back here to pick out your wedding gown.”
My eyes widen.
“You want me to pick out a dress?” I ask.
“And a ring for me,” he adds.
A gown I’d get married in and a ring I’d place on his finger. My stomach does a funny flip at the thought.
I take in Memnon all over again. The man is clad in a tux, his hair combed and styled. To him, this marriage isn’t some bureaucratic event he signs his name on. It means something to him, and he obviously wants it to mean something to me.
My cheeks heat at the thought.
I clear my throat. “So we’re going to pretend I had a choice in this?” I say, trying to act unaffected.
“You did have a choice.”
I scoff. “Between killing off a room of my friends and marrying you,” I say. “Only you would consider that a choice.”
“Fine, then you can pick out a pair of handcuffs while we’re here—I know how much you enjoy seeing me bound up in your bed.”
My jaw goes slack, even as my eyes narrow. “First of all, that was your bed—”
“Our bed,” he corrects me.
“—second of all—”
His lips curl. “I’m pleased, little witch, that you don’t bother denying it.”
I bite back a quick retort, intent to stick to my point. “I used the handcuffs because they were convenient at the time and you are slippery, not because I have a kink,” I say, louder, fighting for my life through this conversation.
His grin only grows. “The gods and I both know you’ve had kinks far longer than there have been names for them. Imprisoning me so you can use me for your pleasure is simply one of—”
I cover his mouth, even as my cheeks heat again.
Against my palm, I feel the sorcerer smile. It’s too bad you can no longer control me through that forged bond, he says, openly taunting me. Then again, I’d be willing to forge another one later tonight when I’m buried inside you. Control, after all, is one of our shared kinks.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You are awfully bold for a man who’s marrying an unwilling woman.”
Gently, he pulls my hand away from his mouth. “Is that what you are?” he says softly. “Unwilling?”
His eyes see too much, and I have to look away. I don’t know what I am.
“I do.” Memnon brings my hand to his lips. “Witch,” he whispers, kissing my thumb. “Queen.” He kisses my pointer finger. “Soul mate,” he says, his eyes flicking to mine.
“Unwilling,” I throw in.
“Bride,” he continues, his lips lingering for an extra moment on my ring finger before moving to my pinky. “Mine,” he finishes.
I swallow the unnamable emotion rising in me.
Memnon loves to nudge the conversation right here, to this vulnerable place where his feelings for me are on display and they force me to reconcile my own feelings for him.
Each time it gets harder and harder to deny this ridiculous and growing… softness I have for him.
“I’m only a little bit willing,” I whisper.
“Sure,” he says earnestly.
“And I guess I can pick out a dress and a ring.” I don’t mention that the unbreakable oath’s magic is growing. I can feel it digging in, tightening around muscle and bone.
“Fantastic,” Memnon says. “Now to find a dress shop.”
The bridal shops are all closed.
By the time we get to the third one, the magic has crossed the threshold between uncomfortable and painful.
“No,” I whisper when I see the darkened lights of the space.
I press a hand to my sternum, where the oath’s magic seems to press the hardest, leaving me a little breathless.
Memnon looks me over, then eyes the shop again. A small puff of his magic leaves his palm as he reaches for the door. I hear a lock tumble, and he opens it.
“Would you look at that?” he says, “the door was—”
An alarm begins to blare from inside. Another gust of his power rolls over the interior wall of the space, and the alarm cuts off.
“—open.”
I glance at him with owlish eyes. “Are we breaking in?”
“That’s such a harsh term. I like improvising.”
“We should just go back to California,” I insist.
Memnon looks me over again, his eyes lingering on my hand, which still presses against my sternum. “We shouldn’t.”
I loiter out on the sidewalk, shifting my weight as I debate, debate—
Another plume of the sorcerer’s magic all but shoves me inside.
“Memnon.”
“Whoops.”
The door closes heavily behind us, and I hear the deadbolt tumble into place. “Did you just lock me inside?”
“You are still my captive bride,” he says, leaning against the door.
Honestly, this man is unbelievable.
Memnon flashes me a downright nefarious smile, like he enjoys being bad, which I know he does. He nods to the room. “Go shop.”
I narrow my gaze at him but do in fact turn and do as he says. Pretty sure my feminism isn’t simply out to lunch; I think that bitch booked a vacation somewhere far away.
The walls of the shop are lined with wedding gowns, and I wander over to them, idly flipping through the dresses while Memnon flicks on the lights.
Between the different sizes and styles, I’m hopelessly lost. The magic digging into me, however, spurs me into action, and I grab a handful of different gowns that look roughly my size and flitter to the back of the building while Memnon finds a baroque couch to lounge on.
I try the first dress on, which has a halter neckline and an open back. The moment I put it on, the fabric collar of it seems to amplify the suffocating feel of the oath’s magic.
Okay, absolutely not this one.
The next one is too small, and the one after that gapes open around my armpits.
I pause to lightly bang my head against the nearby wall. This is needless. I don’t need a pretty dress to get married—
“You do!” Memnon shouts from the main sitting area.
“You’re not helping!” I shout back.
“You need my help?” He sounds genuinely thrilled.
“No!” Goddess no.
The fourth gown I put on zips up perfectly, and before I’ve even looked at myself in the mirror, I’ve decided that this one is it.
But then I do lift my gaze, and I suck in a breath.
The dress not only fits me like a dream, it looks like a dream.
The bodice hugs my torso, tapering off to a V over my pelvis, where the skirt gathers, then ripples out.
The dress itself is made from soft, buttery silk, but gossamer thin tulle overlays the skirt, the material shifting about my legs with my every movement.
Matching off-the-shoulder tulle sleeves hang against my upper arms. The back is low, and delicate fabric buttons run from the top edge of it down to the soft swell of my backside.
I think it’s the prettiest dress I’ve ever worn.
I chew on my inner cheek as I stare at myself in the dressing room mirror. Despite my hair being a little wild and frizzy from my run through Sarmatia and my makeup being minimal, my cheeks are flushed and my pupils are blown wide, and I have a look on my face like…like a woman in love.
On a whim, I release a little of my magic—just enough to smooth out my windblown hair and soften the waves of it—and then I leave the dressing room.
Memnon still sits on the ostentatious couch in the waiting area, his forearms now braced against his thighs, his hands loosely folded in the space between his legs.
As soon as he hears me step out, he looks up.
His entire body stills as his eyes crawl up my form. I can see the whites of those eyes and how his breath catches as he takes me in.
Finally, his gaze settles on my face. I am not the only one looking as though they are in love. He is the picture of yearning.
The sorcerer stands, his staggering frame unfolding. He smooths a hand down his tuxedo almost self-consciously.
“Amage…est amage,” he breathes.
Queen, my queen.
His eyes hold multitudes. “Your beauty would make the gods cry.”
I just manage to stop myself from ducking my head, suddenly bashful.
“I’m pretty sure that’s blasphemous, Memnon,” I say, even as I fight back a smile. I like it that he thinks I’m beautiful. Goddess, I am a goner.
He shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away for even that action. “Then let them smite me for speaking the truth.”
He approaches me slowly, as though if he moves too quickly I might startle and run. He takes my hand and spins me, watching my filmy skirt rustle and twist around me, looking like seafoam.
“Is this the one?” he asks.
I nod, intoxicated by the way he’s drinking me in.
His grip tightens on my hand. “Alright, then let’s be off, my bride.”
I can’t help the way my skin pebbles at that word: bride.
Bloody boils, being in love is nauseating.
He tugs me toward the door, and I nearly let him lead me out before I realize—
“Wait, we can’t just steal a wedding dress,” I say, horrified.
“We can do whatever we please,” Memnon says. When he sees my look, he adds, “But I will pay for your dress like the honest man I am.”
He heads over to the cash register and draws out his wallet, pulling out a wad of bills. Unceremoniously he drops them on the counter. Considering this is a wedding dress, I’m going to have to hope even that ungodly amount of money will be enough.
Memnon tucks his wallet away like he’s done this his entire life and not merely the last few months.
Oh, to have the confidence of a retired warlord.
Then, crossing the room, he takes my hand, presses a kiss to my knuckles, and drags me off to our next destination.
The ache from the unfulfilled oath is beginning to be a problem. I’m breathless as I stand in front of the tray of men’s wedding bands.
Unlike the bridal shop, Memnon and I managed to find a jewelry shop still open. And if the jeweler found it at all strange that the two of us came in clad in wedding attire, he didn’t bother saying so.
The choices in front of me don’t much help. I know I want Memnon to wear a golden ring, but besides that, I’m a little lost.
I turn to Memnon. “Can I see your hand?”
In answer, he lifts his arm to me.
I grasp his calloused hand, taking a moment to appreciate the nicked scars that adorn it.
One by one I slide each wedding band onto his ring finger. The plain gold one looks good, the hammered one is a little too rustic. The band with Celtic knots feels, well, too Celtic for my Sarmatian groom. Same goes for the one incised with mountains.
Across my bond I feel…giddiness.
What are you thinking? I can’t help but ask as I slide another ring onto Memnon’s finger.
That I like this, he says.
He doesn’t elaborate further, but he doesn’t have to. Memnon is still getting used to me caring about him. Fussing over him. What I find mortifying about my feelings for him, he finds moving.
I look down at the band I just placed on his finger, and my grip on his hand tightens.
“This one,” I say breathlessly to the jeweler.
The ring is etched with a vine of laurel leaves. I don’t dare peer too deeply into exactly why it is perfect for Memnon. I’ve been a sentimental sap enough today as it is.
Across our connection, I feel Memnon’s surge of pride as he stares down at it.
When I see him swallow, I silently ask, Do you like it?
I can always pick out another…
Memnon’s gaze flicks to mine. Don’t you dare.
He takes a moment to pull out his wallet and hand the jeweler his credit card, all while the jeweler says something in Italian about the magnificent pick we made.
When Memnon’s eyes return to mine, I see his feelings laid bare in them. I love it more than I can say. Again his throat tightens with his emotions.
It’s right then, caught in his gaze, that a brutal wave of the oath’s magic rushes through me. I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest.
Memnon’s hands come to my upper arms.
Selene? he says down our connection, alarmed.
I lick my lips and nod. “I’m fine,” I reassure him, aware that he must be feeling the oath’s increasing grip as well, “but I think it’s time we get married.”