Chapter 4 #2
I reach into my cleavage, where I tucked away Memnon’s wedding band earlier. It’s not exactly the most romantic place to stash a ring, but then, Memnon’s smirk tells me he doesn’t entirely disapprove.
Pulling it out, I take the sorcerer’s hand once more and slide the gold band onto his finger, my own hands trembling as I do so. Across our bond, I can feel the heat of his emotions as he stares down at the ring.
“By the power vested in me through the House of Keys and the greater supernatural word, I declare you husband and wife before all the gods.” The officiant smiles at us. “You may now kiss your spouse.”
My focus sharpens for this, and despite my pain and my fears, I’m the one that leans forward first.
Memnon releases my hands to hold my face, his touch featherlight and his eyes shining like stars. And when he dips his head and his lips brush against mine, the touch is soft and reverent, and in it is another vow: I will love you, always.
My hands move to his jaw and the back of his head, threading through his silken hair. I let myself get swept up in the tide of this kiss. The warmth of his mouth, the urgency of his lips, the stroke of his tongue against mine when it inevitably deepens.
And then it’s over, but the rush it left in its wake leaves me unbalanced.
I stare at Memnon like I’m seeing him for the first time.
Like we aren’t just enemies or reluctant allies or old flames, but like we are true loves, forged from the same fires, meant to find each other again and again through the ages.
Memnon’s gaze searches mine, and there’s a smile on his face, one that keeps growing back every time it wanes, like he cannot escape the pleasure of this moment, even though his eyes are pinched and sweat still gathers on his skin.
I press a hand to my sternum, my chest still tight, my body still throbbing. The pain from the binding spell continues to flare bright. And damnit, I can still hear the click of that camera. Those are going to make for some interesting wedding photos.
Why hasn’t the pain gone away? I ask Memnon.
It will, est amage, he says, moving to my side. There is just one more thing we must do.
If the oath expects me to consummate this with you while I feel like someone is carving out my insides, I will mutiny.
Or, you know, give myself up for dead.
Memnon, despite looking a little sick around the edges, lets out an honest laugh. And here I was sure masochism was a kink of yours.
I give him a scathing look. I don’t have kinks, I remind him.
Uh huh. Memnon’s expression makes it plain that he thinks I’m a liar. I promise it is nothing nearly so exciting as sex.
He presses a hand to the bare skin of my back and shepherds me forward, toward the officiant.
The latter has made his way to a briefcase he must’ve tucked away for the ceremony. From it he now pulls forth a clipboard with a document clipped to it.
“Truly a delight to see two souls come together,” the man says. “The last thing I need from both of you are your signatures on this marriage license.”
Oh.
Of course. Anyone can utter wedding vows. It’s the documentation these days that actually makes them binding. Funny that magic would recognize the difference.
While Nero wanders off to chase poor, innocent sparrows, my eyes skim over the document, lingering on House of Keys written in bold at the top; it’s the main governing body of the supernatural world, and today, it’s what’s recognizing our marriage.
The form has already been prefilled with all the required information, and if I were feeling less like some shriveled-up animal part I’d use for a spell, I might dwell on the fact that Memnon arranged all of this, even going so far as to fill in our information far back enough for it to be printed out here, today.
The only spaces left to be filled are our signatures.
When did you fill this out?
Little witch, you ask me that as though marrying you hasn’t been my sole focus this entire time.
I swallow, remembering how, in the end, that was the entire point of framing me for murder. Well, that and remembering my past.
Taking the pen from the officiant, I sign.
The past comes over me once more; the first time I did this with Memnon, I could not write my own name—he helped me.
With a shaky exhale, I pass the pen to Memnon.
I watch as he writes out his name, just as he did in Rome, my heart giving an uncomfortable lurch at the sight.
The moment he lifts his pen from the paper, the aching pain of the spell vanishes, and my legs nearly fold as I draw in a deep, gratifying breath.
Placing a hand to my chest, my eyes rise to Memnon. He’s already gazing at me, the look on his face a mixture of relief and wonder.
“Wife,” he says, I think just to taste the word on his tongue. It makes my breath catch and my heart race. And now that grin is back on his face, as though he cannot help it.
“Husband,” I murmur, just to try it out. A thrill runs through me, but I don’t know if it’s my own or Memnon’s. I don’t want it to be my own. I don’t want to give into this contrived marriage so easily despite being in love with the sorcerer.
The officiant tucks the marriage license away. “I will mail this off to the House of Keys. Your own copies should be ready within a few weeks. Many felicitations to you both on your union. May you have a long and happy life together.”
The more words that come out of the officiant’s mouth, the harder it is to breathe. Reality is settling on my shoulders, and it is a heavy, sobering weight.
I just got married. I really am a wife.
I swear I can hear the rush of blood between my ears. I feel a little woozy. And of course Memnon is there, Memnon who must be hyperaware of my every expression and mood. Memnon who has always wished to bind me closer and closer still.
Goddess, what have I done?
I watch the officiant’s back as he retreats from us, aware that the photographer is also approaching. That she will likely want us to pose for photos. That I might actually lose it if she does.
Instead, however, it’s the officiant who changes course, his fingers snapping in the air, like he remembered something.
He turns around, whistling a jaunty little tune as he returns to us.
“I almost forgot,” he says, “the annulment papers.”
My blood chills as he opens his briefcase once more and pulls out a clipboard.
Licking a finger, he flips through the papers pinned in it.
“I’m s-sorry, what did you say?”
The officiant tugs out a new document, one he slides under the metal clasp of the clipboard. “The annulment papers, as requested by your spouse,” he says, nodding to Memnon.
My head snaps up to the sorcerer.
Now my new husband isn’t smiling.
My stomach twists uncomfortably.
Is this a trick? I silently ask him.
Memnon gives his head the slightest of shakes, his body stiff with tension. He appears decidedly unhappy.
It’s not. I can sense the thread of fear weaving through our bond.
My heart feels like it’s lodged itself in my throat. This is an out. This can be the shortest marriage in the history of marriages if I but sign the document.
Is that what you want? I ask carefully. I don’t know why I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I realize then how carefully he was holding his face because the facade falls away for an instant, and he looks like a man leveled by agony.
“Of course not,” he says hoarsely.
The officiant hands me the papers and the pen that, only minutes ago, I used to sign the marriage license.
My stomach turns as I glance over the document.
It’s not nearly as pretty as the marriage license.
There’s something a little bleak about the standardness of the document.
This is just a mistake we’re correcting.
I roll the pen between my fingers pondering that.
Only moments ago this marriage was terrifying to fathom; I might’ve even carelessly agreed that it was a mistake.
But is it, truly?
One of my final memories as Roxilana echoes in my mind.
“We will get another life. A better one,” I promise. “I will find you again, my king. I am eternally yours.”
A gust of wind stirs my dress, and the petals of one of the wildflowers tickles my skin like a reminder of how it once was.
“And if I don’t sign this?” I say softly, glancing back up at Memnon.
I can feel the thick, twisted knot of his emotions, hope rising highest of all.
“Nothing changes,” he says adamantly. “We’ll still take things at your own pace.”
If Memnon were the same man he was back when I first met him in Rome two thousand years ago, I might believe him. But since then, he’s grown wicked. Scheming. And I cannot pretend that I didn’t feel his dismay at the prospect of me signing the annulment. Obviously, a marriage changes things.
I can feel the officiant’s eyes on me, even as the photographer continues to click away, blithely unaware we’re discussing dissolving this fresh union.
I cup Memnon’s cheek, my magic surging down my arm. “Only the truth shall leave your lips,” I incant.
The officiant clears his throat. “I’d like to kindly remind you that you cannot use truth spells without the consent of the other party.”
Memnon lifts a hand, waving him off. “I consent.” His eyes dance when they return to me, reminding me that the sorcerer likes my sharp edges.
My pale orange magic slithers out from my palm, then slides into Memnon’s nose and mouth.
“If I sign this,” I start again, “do you truly mean what you said? That nothing will change between us?”
“Yes…”
I wait, sure there’s more.
When he doesn’t continue, I prod. “But…?”
His throat works, and he gives his head a sharp shake, swallowing as he takes me in. “But you’re mine,” he says the words low, his eyes full of conviction. “You were mine when I first laid eyes on you—you were mine even before that. And you’re mine now and will be until the end of time.