Chapter 13
I wake in the middle of the night, my body jittery.
The transition between meeting Memnon to getting into a car crash to nearly getting eaten by a demon to getting fucked by his monster was more than a little violent, and though I feel mostly calm, my body carries the memories.
And when I reach over to the warm body at my side, my fingers meet fur.
Nero.
“Memnon?” I whisper, looking for my soul mate. The room is silent and still.
I slip out of bed, groping around until I find a light switch. I click it on, and above me, an iron chandelier flickers to life, illuminating the bedroom in warm amber light.
I stand there, naked, unsure whether I want to figure out where Memnon is or use this as an excuse to explore this new house.
In the end, I settle on finding some clothes. The bag I packed when I left Henbane is still back in my wrecked car, but if this house is anything like the last one, there will be plenty of clothes for me inside the closet.
I pad over to a closed door on the other side of the room. I suck in a breath when I open it and turn on the lights. It’s a closet in the loosest sense, but the space is large enough to fit my entire dorm room into.
Already it’s partially filled with clothes. I run my fingers over them when I catch sight of my reflection in the standing mirror at the end of the closet.
I don’t know why I draw closer, why I decide to take a closer look at my form, but I do.
The necklaces I wear—the carnelian one and the contraceptive one—hang heavy around my neck. But even wearing them and my earrings, my pale skin looks bare.
I step closer, my fingers absently going to my upper arm, right where I once had a tattoo.
I trace over the bare skin. In my mind’s eye I can vividly see the snarling panther inked right above the delicate hooves and the twisting body of a slain deer.
My fingers trail over to my chest just as I feel heat at my back, then the warm press of Memnon’s flesh against mine.
His hand covers my own, pinning it in place as he peers at my reflection.
“I miss my tattoos,” I say, surprising myself.
I don’t know when that happened. When I came to openly care about this past that I lived then lost.
“You don’t have to miss them.”
My eyes flick to his, my eyebrows rising. Is he suggesting I get them re-inked? The idea takes root in me.
But of course. It’s the twenty-first century. Of course I can get these tattoos again.
Memnon’s hand and his attention have already moved to my necklace. He runs his fingers over it, then assesses me in the mirror.
“You still wear my jewelry like a queen,” he breathes against my ear.
A corner of my mouth lifts, like the sap I am, and I lean back into him.
His fingers trail over the other necklace I wear, his thumb rubbing across the stamped moon face amulet. “What’s this one?” he asks.
A little bit of my mirth drains away. “That one’s my birth control.”
He studies the ugly necklace curiously. “So you wear it, and you don’t get pregnant?”
I’m suddenly very aware that he’s still holding the necklace in his hands. “Mhm.”
I have a brief memory of him pressing his ring into the soil, right at the old gravesite of the child he lost—we lost—long ago.
He peers at the necklace a little longer before releasing it.
Memnon’s head dips, and his lips skim up the line of my shoulder, then the column of my neck. He pauses to press a kiss to the skin there.
“Do you want to see our new house?” he breathes.
I lazily reach behind me and run my fingers through his hair, marveling at the way our skin feels as it moves against one another. Falling in love—and giving in to love—feels like eating dessert for dinner.
“Now?” I whisper back.
He glances up, meeting my reflection in the mirror, and he smiles, his dark eyes glittering.
“Unless you’d rather I tuck you into bed.” He raises his eyebrows, that smile getting a touch more lascivious.
I don’t think I’d mind Memnon tucking me in. But I am more than a little curious about this new place.
“I want to see…our house.”
The hand that is splayed against my belly now tightens. “Follow me.”
Memnon backs out of the closet, into the bedroom beyond.
I take a moment to grab what looks like a red silk robe off a nearby hanger and slip it on.
The thing is far, far too large on me, its hem pooling on the ground and the sleeves hanging past my fingertips.
I realize after a beat that the thing is probably Memnon’s, especially given the vibrant color, which is very Sarmatian.
I cinch it anyway and meet Memnon in the bedroom.
His gaze heats as he takes me in, his eyes skimming over the silk, appraising his clothes on my body.
I give his chest a little push. “Don’t look at me like that. I want to see your house, but I won’t get anywhere if you keep looking at me like you want to eat me.”
“I do want to eat you.”
Really not helping.
“Fine,” he concedes. “I’ll keep my mouth to myself for the time being. But first,” he says, gripping my arms and maneuvering me to the edge of the bed. Once he does so, he grabs my jaw and presses a kiss to my lips. “Wait here,” he breathes against me.
I watch him retreat from me, toward the darkened hallway beyond. Silently, Nero leaps off the bed and follows.
I bring my palm to my lips. “Illuminate,” I whisper in Sarmatian.
My magic twists and forms into an orb that glows with warm amber-orange light.
“Follow him,” I incant, blowing it toward where I last saw Memnon’s retreating form.
And then I sit there in the bedroom, my eyes skimming over my surroundings.
There’s not much to it despite how large the space is.
It’s clearly still a room being moved into.
The most notable aspect of it, the one my eyes keep returning to it, are the double doors on the wall opposite the bed.
Undoubtedly there’s a balcony on the other side of them.
The impulse to explore, an impulse I’ve been resisting, becomes undeniable.
Pushing off the bed, I make my way to the arched doors and open them. Frigid air hits my face.
I pull the robe a little tighter around myself and slip outside.
The air has a wet coldness to it that is common here in the Bay Area, one that worms its way under your skin.
It’s made all the colder by the frigid stone floor beneath my feet.
But the chill is worth it for the fresh smell of pine needles and wet soil.
I stare out into the darkness. The lamps are still lit on the property, and they illuminate the oak and pine trees scattered around the yard. Beyond that, I cannot see anything else.
Behind me I hear Memnon’s sure, solid footfalls. My witchy orb bobs overhead, and then, once more, I feel the heat of the sorcerer’s body as he steps up behind me. This time, however, he reaches around me to press something warm into my hand.
When I look down, I see it’s a steaming mug.
“You made this for me?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.
“I believe you modern folk call it a midnight snack,” he says as Nero comes to my side.
I smile a little at how strangely thoughtful he is, and I bring the drink to my lips.
I’m expecting coffee or tea. Instead, the taste of milk and honey hits my tongue.
Of course that’s what he made me. He grew up on mare’s milk, and now the taste of this drink reminds me of that long ago home. This is unabashedly sweet.
“Ready for that tour of your house?” Memnon asks.
I find I’m nodding.
“Alright, this way.”
The house is staggering, both in size and opulence, though many of the rooms are decorated in an impersonal way that makes me think Memnon bought the home with the furniture it was staged with.
There are several bedrooms, an office, a couple bathrooms, and a living room with several arched windows that honestly seem like even they’re unsure what purpose they serve. But it’s the three large canvas prints hanging on the wall across from them that have me pausing.
All three of the images are photos from our wedding day. One of them is our “first” kiss with Nero at our side, another is the two of us laughing, and the third one is an intense shot of the two of us gazing at one another, the Pacific Ocean stretching out in the background.
I don’t think I breathe as I take them in.
Memnon glances at the images, then at me, his eyes soft. “Do you like them?”
Like is the wrong word. I’m transfixed by them.
I’ve never seen us like this, and I find myself mesmerized by our magnetic connection, one that photographer masterfully captured.
I’m sure I was in pain in at least two of the shots, but you’d never know.
All I see is our devotion and our obvious chemistry.
“I love these,” I say quietly.
“I have more photos from that day,” Memnon confesses. “Whenever you want to see them, I’ll show you.”
“I’d like that.” I’m a little shaken by how much I want to see the rest of the photos.
I take a deep breath, trying to tamp down my raw feelings. “Can I see the rest of the house?”
Memnon’s gaze lingers on me an extra second, and then he nods. “This way,” he says, and we continue on.
There’s a kitchen done up in pale granite and marble that is as large as Ravensmeade’s communal kitchen, and that’s not even including the nearby wine room.
The space should feel extra cavernous with just us and Nero in it, but between Memnon’s size and the commanding way he moves through the space, it doesn’t feel nearly so empty.
I have a momentary flashback to the palace at Panticapaeum.
We had wandered about the palace grounds there, nomads who were unused to solid walls around us.
Even then, however, Memnon hadn’t looked out of place.
The king in him always seems to be comfortable, and why shouldn’t he be?
He lives and moves in a world that bends to his every whim.
Memnon brings me next to the second-floor landing, and here he pauses.
“Do you want to know why I purchased this place?”