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“Does anything else hurt?” he asks, his tone gentle—far too gentle.

Everythingelse hurts—my head, my joints, my very skin. But most of all, my heart.

“Isn’t this your moment to gloat?” I say instead as I’m carried down the empty cellblock. “You’ve defeated me in all ways.”

Memnon’s magic stretches out and opens the heavy metal door ahead of us. “I will gloat when my future wife feels better.”

Future wife.

I make a face at that, then wince when my head throbs harder. Fuckinghateunbreakable oaths and this farce of an engagement.

Next to the door out, the officer on duty lays sprawled on the ground, his eyes closed and his chest steadily rising and falling. Memnon pauses a moment to crouch next to him and, balancing me in one of his arms, he uses his other to touch the man’s forehead.

“You drank too much tonight and fell asleep while on duty,” he murmurs. “You’re embarrassed and will tell no one of this.”

Memnon rises, cradling me in his arms once more. If I felt better, I would’ve had some acidic commentary about what he just did. But honestly I’m too tired and in pain to care.

“Where do you hurt most?” Memnon asks as we exit the cellblock, as though he read my thoughts.

“My head.” What point is there in lying? It feels like someone is trying to jackhammer their way out of my skull.

No sooner have I spoken than Memnon readjusts the arm wrapped around my back so that his hand cups my forehead.

“Ease the pain,” he murmurs in Sarmatian.

His magic sifts out of him, some of it slipping up through my nostrils and some of it sinking directly into my skin.

Immediately, the migraine fades, each pulse of pain less intense than the last, until it’s gone completely.

I sigh, settling deeper into Memnon’s arms for a momen?—

Wait. No, he’s still the enemy. I’m not going to enjoy being carried when he just ruined my life.

“I can walk,” I insist as Memnon carries me down the Politia’s lonely hallway.

Not actually sure about this one, but fuck it if I’m going to let Memnon continue to haul me around like I’m helpless.

“All right then, little witch,” he says, almost indulgently, like I’m being cute and ridiculous.

Goddess but I’d love nothing more than to stab this man with a spork.

He bends, letting my feet touch the linoleum floor and holding me stable as I stand. I’m still wearing the heels I borrowed from Sybil earlier this evening for the Samhain Ball, and as soon as Memnon lets me go, my legs wobble like I’m a colt. For a second, I’m positive I’m going to eat shit, but then I find my balance.

Memnon moves around to my front and kneels at my feet.

My brows pull together. “What are you?—?”

He reaches for one of my legs and lifts it, setting my foot on his thigh. I hop around for a moment before resting my arms on his shoulders and leaning my weight against him.

I consider kicking the man in the teeth when he pulls Sybil’s stiletto from my foot.

I frown down at him. “What are you doing?” I demand.

“Removing these ridiculous shoes so you can walk,” he says, massaging the pad of my foot.

My frown deepens.

The sorcerer presses a kiss to my ankle, then sets my foot down.