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I make a small sound at the state he’s in, and the noise draws his eyes to mine. The moment he sees me, his magic barrels across the room. It molds itself around my body and drags me forward, out of the chasm.

I scream as the movement jostles my innards.

“Selene!” Memnon roars.

I can no longer see him, not when his magic surrounds me. But then, I feel his hands on me.

He murmurs a quick spell, and my pain vanishes. An instant later, he pulls me into his arms, sitting back on his haunches to hold me, his hand moving to my abdominal wound.

Before he can press a healing spell against it, the ground shudders again, dislodging his grip on my stomach and sliding the two of us forward. It feels as though the earth itself is trying to pitch us into the massive crack Memnon just dragged me out of.

Mistress…join us as you once did…

My eyes move to the dark opening down, down in the deep earth, and I grit my teeth.

“No,” I say.

Memnon gives me a curious look before following my gaze. He studies the fissure for several seconds, then returns his attention to me.

You’ve been speaking to the Hungering Ones, haven’t you?he says down our bond.

They didn’t seem so bad when I was facing down a demon,I admit wearily.

It seems they’ve acquired a taste for powerful witches.

Memnon lifts his eyes from mine. To the chasm in the earth, he says in Sarmatian, “Old gods below, youcannothave Selene. She is mine. Honor your oaths, and take my blood as an offering of peace.”

The sorcerer unsheathes the blade strapped to his side. In one sharp motion, he cuts his forearm and lets the blood pour onto the ground.

The shaking slows, then eventually stops altogether.

The room grows very, very quiet, save for the drip of Memnon’s blood.

My eyes meet my mate’s eyes, feeling exposed. “Thank you.” Whatever those voices are, they are boogeymen.

The glow in his eyes fades back to brown. “Est amage, you do not need to thank me for things that come with being your soul mate. We pull each other back from the edge.”

He wipes his blade and returns it to its sheath.

Memnon’s gaze drops to my stomach and my mess of a wound. He makes an agonized sound. “Est amage.”

Memnon’s hand covers my injury once more, his fingers splayed out across it, and I can feel the lick of his magic as it seeps in, the tingling warmth spreading through my flesh. He murmurs the Mochica curse-breaking spell, and I sense some inner darkness release and flitter away with it.

“As much as I love your ferocity, I cannot stand this part of it,” Memnon admits. His words are punctuated by the uncomfortable tugging sensation as his healing spell takes root and my innards reform. “Where is the demon?” Memnon asks.

“Where he belongs,” I say.

A smile curves his lips, and he tilts his head so he can see me better. “That’s my queen.” His eyes sweep over the mess of the room. “I notice the spell circle you mentioned is gone as well.”

“I really don’t like being trapped.”

Memnon laughs, the sound light and joyful. It’s at odds with the oppressive magic that saturates the very walls of this room.

“Of course you don’t,” he says mirthfully. “You are a Sarmatian queen, made to roam the boundless, open plains of the steppe. Your soul is made of vaster stuff.” He pulls his hand away from my midsection, studying the pink, newly formed skin. My mate lets out a shuddering breath. “How does your stomach feel?”

“Fine,” I say dismissively, staring up at his face. I don’t care about my stomach at the moment.

I grab the tattered lapels of his tux and drag him to me. His lips meet mine, and we’re kissing each other feverishly, as though the world is ending. It’s bruising, desperate. We are in Rome, we are in Bosporus, we are on the Eurasian steppe, and we are here.