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I grimace at that word. Fiancée. I swear he keeps using it just to rile me.

You better have closed your eyes when you changed me, I say.

All I feel is that persistent grin from his side of the bond, damn him.

And where are you?I demand.

Is someone upset that I wasn’t in bed with them when they woke?

I grind my teeth. He’s so cavalier andplayfulat the moment.

When are you coming back?I ask.

I feel glee from him.Miss me already?

If that keeps your fragile ego from shattering, then sure. I miss you so desperately I might die if I don’t see you again.

On the other side of our connection, things go quiet, still.

Finally, Memnon says,Speak to me like that again, and I will give you your heart’s greatest desires.

My heart desires to be rid of you. If you can give me that, sure, I will whisper some empty platitudes in your ear.

On the other end of the bond, Memnon is no longer jovial. If anything, I swear I sense a flicker of woundedness. I nearly cackle at the thought. I might not be defeated yet.

I will be home soon,he says instead.

Soon? Soon? The fuck does that mean? Fifteen minutes? Two hours? I need to know how much time I have.

But to him, I merely say,Oh good, then I’ll get the knives out and sharpened for your return.

His amusement returns.Empress, you’re speaking my love language.With that final, disturbing thought, he pulls away from the connection.

How does he even know about the concept of love languages? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here.

I glance at the oversize black shirt I wear.

Well, change, then escape.

I head for the walk-in closet next to the bathroom. Halfway there, a scrap of lace hanging inside it catches my eye.

My stomach bottoms out as, for an instant, I’m filled with dread that some other woman has been here with Memnon.

No, that can’t be right. Can it?

I hate that I care. He and his poor life choices can rot.

Still, my pulse pounds between my ears as I hustle toward the closet, drawn by a horrified fascination at what I might find inside.

Women’s clothing? Weapons? Bodies? Who the fuck knows.

The walk-in closet is about as big as my entire room at the coven.He’ssucha rich bitch.Despite the space, there’s not much inside as far as Memnon’s clothes go. I see a handful of suits hanging up as well as some folded shirts and pants on the shelves.

Not that I’m paying much attention to those.

My eyes are pinned to that single scrap of lace, which now that I’m closer looks like a slip dress. I reach for it, my stomach plummeting at the thought of someone else wearing this around Memnon until I notice it has a tag still attached.

I exhale, my breath shaky. Okay, so it’s not some mystery woman’s. What a relief. For her, of course. Best not to get within striking distance of this dude.