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Then he’s reaching for my shirt, grabbing the hem and—

Riiiip.

I gasp as the material splits down the middle, revealing my stomach and bra.

“What are you doing?” I demand. I shiver as the cool air hits my skin.

“Assessing your injuries,” he growls, flicking his gaze to my pants.

He pulls out a wicked-looking blade that was strapped to his side.

At the sight of it, I go still.

His eyes move back to mine, and his expression softens. He takes my hand and clasps it tightly, the hilt of his dagger brushing against my palm.

“Don’t be frightened, little witch,” he says. “This is so I can remove your pants and assess your injuries. Your clothes are”—he takes a bracing breath—“too blood soaked to pull off without jostling you.”

Blood soaked?

I don’t believe him, not until I glance down my torso and see the massive red stains myself. I didn’t realize my wounds were that bad—the robe obscured them from view.

I drag my attention back to him. A muscle jumps in his cheek, like he’s only barely holding in some emotion. His eyes run over my face as though he can’t help but take me in.

“Can I continue?” Memnon asks.

Swallowing, I nod.

He gives my hand a squeeze, then lays it down with the sort of care that makes me feel breakable. With his knife, he carefully cuts my jeans away, slicing open one pant leg, then the other.

I’m left in nothing but my bra and underwear, but Memnon only has eyes for my wounds. His indigo magic thickens and coils around him.

“Your enemies’ deaths will be slow,” he vows, and there is far too much conviction in his eyes.

I’m too weary to argue with him about this when my limbs are trembling, either from shock or exertion.

Gingerly, he lifts one of my feet, inspecting the pad of it. I already know the flesh down there is torn up. I felt the cuts I collected as I ran barefoot. By that point, I was too determined to care.

“You should’ve used my magic to heal yourself,” he chastises lightly. I notice then what I hadn’t before—Memnon’s foreign accent is gone, though how it vanished is a mystery.

“I was busy,” I rasp.

He inclines his head, like I make a fair point, setting my leg back down so he can shrug off the leather jacket he’s wearing. Beneath it, he wears a fitted black T-shirt. Even feeling like roadkill at the moment, I still manage to admire his thickly corded arm muscles and the tattoos that run along them.

Memnon tosses his jacket over the back of my desk chair, and that simple action is natural, as though he’s at home in my space, and I don’t know why I like it. It should tick me off.

It probably will tomorrow when I don’t feel like death warmed over.

The sorcerer kneels next to the bed. Gently, he reaches for the wound along my torso, the one Nero accidentally gave me. His touch is featherlight, but I still hiss out a breath at the contact.

“Relax, my wildcat,” he says, giving me an endearing look.

The sight of it throws me completely, and my weary heart picks up speed.

Memnon murmurs something under his breath, and I feel the tingling brush of his power against my side.

I grimace as, under his touch, my flesh repairs itself. It’s not painful, but it doesn’t feel good either. I try to wiggle away from it, but Memnon’s other hand braces my torso, holding me in place with a casual sort of familiarity. That too has my pulse picking up, and my brows come together.

“Good woman,” he praises, his eyes on my wound. “You’re taking it so well. So well.”