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I’m…afraid.

“You don’t have to do this,” Memnon says over his shoulder.

“No one is compelling me to do anything,” I say brusquely. “I…want to help.”

I feel a burst of—oflovefrom Memnon’s side of the bond. I don’t let myself linger on it, though I badly want to.

Instead, I draw in a fortifying breath, then grab the hem of his shirt. I peel it slowly away from his skin, hissing in a breath at the sight before me.

Crisscrossing his back are strips of open wounds, the skin split and jagged. There are over a dozen of them, each one oozing blood and a black, oily substance.

Seven hells. The wounds are cursed.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask, trying to understand the extent of the damage.

Already my magic pours out of me, thick clouds of it settling over his injuries. The frayed edges of his skin reach for each other, but the dark magic forces them apart just as quickly.

“Hours,” Memnon says.

“You were commanded not to heal yourself?” I ask, my mind racing to remember the curse-breaking spell Memnon used on me.

He nods reluctantly.

So Patrick, the mage he was supposedly bonded to, must’ve ordered the punishment. But it was an order Memnon didn’t need to follow. The forced bond between him and the mage is entirely fabricated; Memnon has never been under its sway.

I set my remaining questions aside for the moment.

I glance around at the shelves and shelves of books. Any one of them might have instructions on curse breaking. And if I enter the little room at the back of the library, I’ll have access to many, many grimoires that might have the spell I need.

It feels like a waste of time trying to chase the right spell down when the sorcerer here already knows one.

“I need help breaking the curse on my own,” I say softly. “Will you remind me of the incantation you used?” It feels funny to ask for his help when he refused to heal himself.

But he answers readily enough. “Tirub xeqeqoyaq yaqub evritiwuwa yasnnichis, puqamubyaqpi chiqmachibmi.”

I extend my hand over his back, gathering my magic. The buzzing from the sconces grows louder, and the lights flicker more intensely as I recite the curse-breaking spell.

My magic spreads across his back once more, but this time, it doesn’t bother healing the wounds at all. Instead, an alarming amount of the black, tarry substance coating his wounds now oozes from them. The moment it’s expelled from his body, it begins to bubble and hiss away, dissolving into an oily smoke that dissipates into the air.

“What do the words of the spell mean?” I ask softly as my magic works.

“Begone poisoned death that corrupts my spirit. With love I destroy you.”

I muse on that as the last of the dark magic burns away. Once I’m sure the spell is finished, I lick my dry lips, inspecting the wounds. They look clean.

“I think it worked,” I say softly.

“I had no doubt,” Memnon says, still leaning forward and idly petting Nero’s head. My panther closes his eyes, basking in the touch.

“I’m going to finish healing you,” I say, letting my magic spill from me. This doesn’t take an incantation. My power wants to heal him, the soft plumes of it rolling over his back and sinking into his flesh. It begins stitching muscle and skin together, his torn tattoos beginning to reform.

My gaze crawls up his back to what I can see of his profile and his wavy, blood-speckled hair.

I cannot seem to help myself—I reach out and run my fingers through that black hair. Belatedly, I realize this is a caress. I’m caressing this man.

My heart stumbles over itself as Memnon leans into the touch, and I have a moment of déjà vu—we have done this manytimes before. This is muscle memory as much as anything else, and for some reason, that makes my heart ache all the more.

I withdraw my hand and refocus my attention on his wounds.