Chapter 18
I lie before a roaring fire in the hearth, naked down to my waist, pillows propping up my back.
A nearby bowl of cannabis burns, its pungent odor hanging in the air.
I reach for my glass of spiced wine, bringing it to my lips.
Already I’ve downed two prior glasses of it, and the world has taken on a hazy, glorious glow.
On my chest is a sketch of Memnon’s clan mark, the dragon, drawn in red.
Memnon ended up doing it, and he definitely undersold his artistic abilities.
The creature looks exactly as I remember it.
But even if it didn’t, I would still be pleased.
It was more important to me that a Sarmatian give me the tattoo than it was to receive a pristine replica of the image.
Memnon withdraws the needle from where he heats it in the flame. Then, dipping it into the bowl of charcoal, he brings it over my heart. His hand is steady as it hovers there, above me, but he doesn’t lower it.
The fire dances in his eyes as he stares down at me, and it reminds me of other times and places where we gazed at each other by firelight.
In many ways, this is how I will always remember him, his hair loose, the shadows curving over the contours of his face, his presence romanticized by the dim, dancing light.
Right now, however, his brow is furrowed.
“What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, a hint of a sardonic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t want to break your skin.”
I set my drink down and prop myself up on my forearms. “You’ve done so before, when you taught me how to fight.” There had been inevitable scrapes along the way.
Memnon draws in a deep inhale and nods. “I know. But you have been hurt so much, both in this life and your last. The more I bear witness to it, the more softness I want to give you.”
The admission thaws something in me that has no business thawing.
I take his hand and press it to my cheek. Turning my head into it, I kiss his palm.
“Pes vaksa vexupusa.”
I love you.
Memnon’s hand slides to my chin and he tips my head up. “Pes udugab vesamasusa.”
I am yours forever.
Memnon’s gaze flicks to my mouth, and after a moment, he leans in and brushes his lips against mine. It’s over before it even began, and then he’s lifting the bone needle once more. He draws in a steadying breath.
Placing his other hand on the flesh surrounding the tattoo, he lowers the needle.
The moment it breaks the skin, I swallow back a hiss of pain. Goddess, I forgot how it felt to be pierced by these things.
Memnon wiggles the needle slightly to deposit the pigment, then withdraws it.
He arches a brow. “Do you want me to take away your pain?” my soul mate asks. He sounds all too eager to do so.
I shake my head and reach for my wine instead. “I’m fine.” Call me sentimental, but I want this experience to be as it was. So I settle for the old-fashioned pain management and take a long, long swallow of my drink before setting it back down.
Memnon eyes me for a second longer, and I think he’s considering calling me a liar. Instead, he says, “What are your dreams?”
My gaze moves to him. “Hmm?” I say.
“Your dreams,” Memnon repeats as he heats the needle. “What do you wish for in this lifetime?”
“Oh.” I cast my gaze across the large living room, off into the shadowy distance. I think about it, and then I frown. “I don’t…know.”
I want to leave it at that, but Memnon is still staring at me, waiting, and I feel compelled to offer him more of an answer.
“I wanted to get into Henbane for so long that it became my dream,” I say.
“I assumed I’d find my calling once I was enrolled, but…
” My mind flashes to Memnon rising from his tomb, his scale mail falling off him.
It moves to the moment I made the unbreakable oath to marry him, before finally lingering on our wedding day.
Absently, I press a hand to my temple and give my head a shake.
I can feel Memnon watching me carefully. I think he might be in my thoughts, though good luck to him if he can grasp any meaning from the jumble of them.
“But?” he echoes, dipping the bone needle into the bowl of pigment.
“Mmm?” Had I said but?
I jog my mind, but all it’s full of is Memnon, Memnon, Memnon. I’m getting disturbingly obsessive about this man. “I’m happy anyway.”
He gives me a nod, his eyes a little too sharp. I feel my cheeks heat.
I clear my throat. “What about you?” I ask him.
Memnon’s gaze rests heavily on me. “You have always been my dream, est amage. That one has no expiration date.”
I swallow, my stomach fluttering.
Memnon brings the bone needle back to my skin.
This time I do hiss in a breath when it pierces my flesh, and I see Memnon’s shoulders tense before he visibly relaxes them.
He removes the needle, and blood oozes from the small wound, but before it can slide down my flesh, Memnon’s magic is there, cleaning the wound.
“You’re doing so well, est amage,” he breathes.
I exhale a shaky breath, trying not to preen under his praise.
Again and again, Memnon repeats the steps of heating the needle, dipping it into pigment, then pressing it into my skin, his motions methodical.
It falls into a hazy sort of rhythm, one only enhanced by the cannabis smoke and my long swallows of wine.
Nero rests nearby, his tail twitching, his watchful eyes on me.
In and out the needle works, the lines of my tattoo slowly filling in. Memnon has steady, deft hands, and I find his earlier protests amusing, considering how he now tattoos me with the confidence of a man who has spent his life doing it.
The moon and stars have arced their way across the night sky before Memnon finally leans back on his haunches.
“It’s finished.”
My mind has long since drifted away on a cloud made of wine and scented smoke, but at his words, my consciousness sharpens and my stomach twists in both excitement and apprehension. Despite all my confidence in Memnon, I truly have no idea what to expect.
And as he pulls me up to my feet, his expression doesn’t give anything away.
“Let me show you what it looks like,” he says, tugging me out of the room and to one of the bathrooms.
When the lights flick on, I squint against the harsh brightness. Once my eyes adjust, they move to the inked dragon on my chest.
I suck in a breath, lifting my fingers to the tattoo. I stop short of touching it.
“It’s just as I remember,” I breathe.
Behind me, Memnon’s jaw clenches with emotion.
I lean in closer to peer at it. “You got all of the details.”
“I’ll probably have to go back in and do touch-ups,” he insists, like he cannot quite stomach the praise.
But I’m hardly listening. My eyes prick, and again I try to touch the tattoo before holding myself back. It feels like uncovering my memories all over again, like a part of me has been restored.
I turn around and wrap my arms around Memnon’s neck. “I want you to do the others.” The panther and the slain deer. I want them back on my upper arm.
Memnon groans, but when his lips find mine, he’s smiling against me, and across our connection I feel the rush of something soft and nostalgic. Like maybe this meant as much to him as it did to me.
Our mouths move against each other, the kiss growing hungrier with each pass of our lips. Memnon pulls away and softly grips my throat.
The sorcerer angles my face up to his. “I hope it was worth it,” he breathes, “because it’s time to pay up.”
I don’t even have a chance to react before his magic unfurls out of him, dancing along the skin below my waist. Everywhere it touches, my outfit peels off me. My pants finally fall in a heap around my feet, my sheathed daggers clattering as they hit the ground.
Memnon’s own clothes face a similar fate. Before my eyes, I see his shirt and pants melt off his body. By the time they hit the floor, I’m already naked.
My stomach twists in anticipation.
Memnon hovers a hand over my fresh tattoo. “Keep clean and protect,” he incants in Sarmatian.
A small plume of his indigo magic spreads out over my inked skin, then sinks in.
Once the indigo wisps fade away, things happen rapidly.
His magic flares out, curling around my nipples and between my legs, stroking and tugging and making me ache and ache, twisting my senses.
A fire has lit in my blood. I want him, and though I’m nervous about the lack of protection, I’m also perversely excited.
Memnon lifts me up, setting me on the counter, then kneels at my feet. Spreading my thighs apart, he leans in, his mouth gentle as it meets my sensitive flesh.
I suck in a breath, and my fingers find his hair. Memnon is kissing me slowly, his teeth grazing against my clit.
“I know what you’re doing,” I murmur.
Yes, well, I got hungry, he responds.
My toes curl at his words, and I bite back a laugh that turns into a moan when his tongue meets my clit.
“You’re trying to ease me, like I’m one of your restless horses.”
This is decidedly not how I ease my steeds, Selene.
This time I do laugh out loud, even as Memnon rises back up and lifts me from the counter. He leans my back against the bathroom wall.
It’s only then, with my wetness slick on his lips and the head of his cock pressing at my entrance that my laughter dies away.
I tense a fraction.
“Relax, little witch, relax for me.”
This is definitely the voice he uses with skittish horses.
And damn him, but it’s working. I feel my body loosen, and he must sense it too because slowly, slowly he lowers me onto his cock. I gasp as I feel the glorious, intrusive pressure of his dick as it breaches my opening then stretches out my inner walls.
“Good woman,” he breathes.
My skin pricks at his praise.
It seems to take a small eternity for him to fully seat himself. Once he finally does, he exhales softly. His magic is there, wrapping around me and holding me against him so that the sorcerer can brush the hair back from my face.
“I’ve got you, Selene,” he says, his touch lingering. “I’ve always got you. Even with this—especially with this.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. I don’t want to think about my own choices.