Chapter 4 #3
“And I’ve been trying to remember what it’s like to be reasonable, but there is a fire in me, est amage, where you are concerned, and it wants to devour you whole. If you don’t sign those annulment papers, then you are mine in earnest.”
A shiver moves down my spine, one I tell myself is foreboding and not…fucked-up anticipation.
The officiant clears his throat. I’m sure now he’s having more than a few misgivings about marrying us today.
The annulment papers are still in my hands, the words partially obscured by the tendrils of the power escaping from my palms.
I pulled the truth out of Memnon, and it’s just as unhinged as every other part of him.
And yet, the longer I stare at the document, the more bile rises in my throat at the prospect of signing it. Which I should still definitely do for a number of wise and pragmatic reasons
Too bad I’m neither wise, nor pragmatic.
I release a bit of power from my palms. A moment later, the first tendril of smoke rises up from the edges of the annulment papers. The singed smell quickly follows as the document catches on fire.
The flames spread rapidly across the paper, hungry for more. Within seconds the annulment is nothing more than a couple curled, brown scraps of paper, some cinders, and smoke.
Only then, once it’s essentially ashes, do I relax.
“I guess we have our answer to that, now, don’t we?” the officiant says, smiling jovially as he takes the clipboard back from me. His words are punctuated by more of that incessant clicking of the photographer’s camera.
Memnon’s eyes are heavy on me as the officiant congratulates us again, then walks away, this time for good.
I finally turn and meet those eyes, knowing full well the weight of what I just did. As dramatically as possible, I declared that I wanted to be his.
Memnon grins, the expression spreading until it reaches all corners of his face.
“Wife.” He’s not testing the word out this time. No, now he’s saying it with open relish.
If you don’t sign those annulment papers, then you are mine in earnest, he’d said. I shiver again.
I am afraid—maybe more afraid than I was before, when I was fighting the pull driving me toward this violent, complicated man. Because now I truly feel as though I’m in free fall and not even my good judgment can catch me.
Memnon reels me in and steals a kiss—a soft, sugary-sweet one.
When has this battle-born man mastered softness? Sweetness? Why is he so good at it? I don’t think I like it. Not when I’m wearing his ring and the flower crown he made with his will and magic. Not when our old, Roman vows still linger in the air.
If I continue to fall for him and it ends badly, I’m pretty sure the heartbreak will be soul destroying.
My new husband—Goddess, that sounds weird, even in my head—breaks off the kiss to thread his fingers through mine.
“Come,” he says, backing away and pulling me along with him.
“Where to now?” I ask, stumbling after him.
“Have some faith, est ziwasa,” he teases, his eyes dancing with secrets.
My wife. A pleasant shiver races down my skin as I linger on that term.
Memnon doesn’t lead me back to the car, though I cannot imagine what else could be out here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.
Instead, he walks us to a narrow, earthen path that winds down the sloping hillside, the ocean shining in the distance. A copse of oak trees comes into view, and just beyond them rests a house made of glass and wood.
“Is that—” for us?
“Yes.”
Even from here I can tell this is the sort of marital getaway that finds its way into magazines and internet lists. It’s beautiful and remote and probably cost a small fortune—not that Memnon is exactly hurting for money.
It reminds me again of when I opened his closet and found hangers full of clothes for me. This is care and consideration. So much of it. My heart gives a terrible pang, and something rises in me. Goddess, but I think this is giddiness.
I should probably be less flattered and more worried that all of this consideration obsessively revolves around me.
“Just how long have you been planning this?” I ask.
He glances back at me with a sly look. “Est amage, I tried to force your hand in marriage weeks ago.”
That was back when we firmly hated each other. Or at least, when I hated him. I have no idea what toxic combination of vengeance and desire drove Memnon in this direction.
“Bold of you to think that directly after framing me for murder, you’d still be able to romance me.”
“I was open to the fact that you might stab me in the process, but yes, even when I raged for what I thought you did, I still was optimistic.” He smiles at me. “I was and remain an optimist.”
I shake my head, even as I let him lead me to the glass house.
Inside, there are rugs and pillows, a table upon which rests a sweating ice bucket chilling a bottle of champagne, glass flutes, plates and silverware, another waiting bottle of champagne, and a two-tiered cake decorated with wildflowers.
Rose petals are strewn about like confetti, leading my eyes away from the table to the bed resting at the back of the room.
I draw in a sharp inhalation at the sight.
It’s no different from Memnon’s bed or my own for that matter, but the rose petals that litter it really emphasize the weddedness of the whole thing.
“We don’t need to do anything,” he says.
He said similar words on our first wedding night an eon ago. Similar, ridiculous words, considering we’ve been doing all sorts of things together since I revived him from the grave.
“We’ve been casually doing them,” Memnon insists.
Right. Because this man has been edging us toward deep, meaningful sex.
“Uh-huh,” I say, disbelieving. This was the same man who mere minutes ago claimed that I was his and he wouldn’t let me go.
I place a hand on his chest. “Listen,” I say, “I’m sure being married has all sorts of downsides”—particularly if your spouse happens to be an ancient, bloodthirsty king—“but getting to bang you all the time is not one of them.”
It’s not exactly the most romantic thing I’ve ever said, but I swear the look Memnon gives me heats the room at least five degrees.
Dropping my hand from his chest, I back away from him, ignoring the way his eyes are still devouring me.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat a little as I head over to the cake.
I pick up the knife resting next to it. “I think I deserve a little treat for going through with this whole thing.” I mean, the alternative was slowly getting crushed to death by the weight of an unfulfilled oath, but what are details?
The fact remains that I did marry this terrifying man.
I didn’t even annul it like I could’ve. I think that definitely earned me some cake.
I begin slicing into the thick buttercream frosting, cutting out a neat slice.
“And I suppose you deserve it, too,” I add conversationally, well aware that Memnon is still devouring me with those eyes of his, “considering you set this all up—though technically you ought to not get any since you’re the one responsible for forcing us into a shotgun wedding, but you did buy the cake. ”
I pull the slice out and set it on a waiting plate.
My new husband leans lightly against the nearby wall, tugging his bow tie as he continues to watch me with rapt fascination. “You burned the annulment.”
My shoulders tense. “My magic did that on its own.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “You sure about that, wife?” he says, scrutinizing me. “I can always get another one—”
No.
I feel the warmth of Memnon’s emotions across our bond as he hears my thought ring out loud and clear.
His eyes seem to twinkle. “I think you liked it when I said you were mine forever.”
My heart skips a beat, even as I grimace. Picking up the plate, I cross over to Memnon.
“Maybe I did,” I admit, my voice low. I break off a piece of the spongy wedding cake. “Maybe I’m having some conflicting feelings at the moment when it comes to you.”
I lift the cake to his lips. Memnon gives me a perplexed look.
“This is a modern wedding tradition,” I explain, surprised that this is one of the holes in his knowledge of modern life.
After a moment, he opens his mouth.
The very tradition I speak of allows me—hypothetically—to smash this cake all over his face, and at the very least, he deserves that. So I don’t know what kind of weak-willed, moon-eyed sap I am that I only gently place the bit of cake on his tongue.
Memnon’s mouth closes around the dessert, and he watches me with that same uncanny intensity as he swallows the cake.
So this feeding each other is a tradition? he asks down our bond.
I nod, watching his throat work.
Then I feed you as well? he asks.
You do.
He takes the plate from me then and pulls a piece of the vanilla layer cake off the plate and moves it to my lips.
Memnon’s eyes search mine, a secretive smile on his lips. “Open up, little witch.”
I part my lips and let him place the piece of cake on my tongue. And it might be the most decadent cake out there, but I can’t seem to taste its flavor with Memnon standing so close and drinking me in like it really has been two thousand years since we last saw one another.
His eyes move over me like he can commit my face to memory. “Strange magic, isn’t it?” he says softly.
I swallow down the bite, my thumb wiping away the last remnants of sugar from my lips. “What do you mean?”
“The love that brought us together was too powerful even for death.”
My skin pricks at that.
He turns from me then and sets the plate of cake aside in exchange for the chilled champagne and the two glasses. Gripping the flutes and the bottle in one hand, he grabs a throw blanket folded in a nearby basket and tosses it over his shoulder.
I don’t know precisely what he has up his sleeve now, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to see exactly what his plans entail. So I let him lead me back out of the small glass-and-wood house and farther down the hill.