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In the darkness of the woods, I sense Memnon’s eyes on me. He doesn’t say anything, but down our bond, there’s this honeyed softness coming from him. It makes me think of all the parts of us I really don’t want to focus on.

I press my lips together and say nothing else for the rest of the walk back.

As soon as Memnon and I enter the residence hall, the air in the house shifts.

But as we pass my house’s library to our right, a few witches gaze curiously at the sorcerer. He gets more looks from the witches heading to the dining hall and a couple more from coven sisters coming down the staircase.

I glance over at Memnon, struck all over again by his appearance. His bronze skin, his black hair, and that beautiful, unforgiving face are arresting to look at, and that’s saying nothing about his massive stature. He’s built like the warrior he once was, and it shows.

He quirks an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth curving up. His lips part, and he sucks in a breath to speak.

“Whatever you’re about to say,” I warn, “don’t.”

The sorcerer closes his mouth, bound by my order. That doesn’t stop him from continuing to appear highly amused.

When we get to my room, Memnon’s assessing gaze sweeps over the place.

“Where is Nero?” he asks when he sees the empty cat bed.

“Out hunting.” I close the door behind me. “I didn’t name Nero after the emperor,” I confess. It was one of the things Memnon and I argued about weeks ago. “I named him after the era I first found him.”

Romans included the reigning emperor’s name in their dates. I lived and died during Nero’s reign, and though I hadn’t consciously realized that when I gave my familiar his name, I was still unknowingly paying tribute to it.

“I…see.” I sense the frayed edges of Memnon’s guilt all over again. That’s his only tell.

The sorcerer moves to my computer chair and sits down, his legs splaying out. His eyes still look a little haunted, and he’s definitely acting more reserved than usual, but there’s this menacing energy about Memnon that he can never fully shake. I feel as though I caught myself a monster. One who looks at home in this cramped room.

He swivels a little in the seat, peering over the knickknacks on my desk. The action makes me twitchy, and I have to remind myself that I can actually control the man now.

His eyes snag on my keyboard. Abruptly, he stops moving.

“Who wrote this?” His voice is entirely different, low with rage.

He picks up the sticky note with the threatening message, strands of his power snapping and coiling out of him like lunging serpents. When his eyes meet mine, he looks ready to murder somebody. He probablyisready to murder somebody.

“The people who survived the spell circle—I think.”

His eyes begin to glow, just a little. He slides the note into his pocket.

“What are you doing?” I say, sitting down on the edge of my bed.

“Saving this note so that I can nail it to their body when I find them.”

Hell’s bells. Involving Memnon is already turning out to be a bad idea. I’m trying to tame a creature far more intense than even my panther.

“Is this note why you wanted my help?” he asks, way too insightful.

There’s no point denying it. I give a sharp nod.

My soul mate leans forward, the tense set of his features making his scar appear extra visible. “I will tell you everything I know about the murders and the spell circle, but,est amage, the knowledge comes at a cost. If I involve you, we run the risk of our enemies discovering our connection—not just that we’re soul mates but also that you now control me. That is…dangerous knowledge to have. It can be used against us. Do you still want my help?”

“I’m already involved. I want to know.”

Memnon bows his head and nods.Which should we focus on first?he says, speaking directly down our connection.

Right. This discussion is a bit too sensitive to be voicing out loud.

I jut my chin toward his pocket, where the threatening note rests.The witches involved in the spell circle.They are the more immediate concern.