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He stares at my shocked expression, something sad entering his eyes. “You had the same reactions the first time you learned these things. It is both a wonder and a heartbreak to see it all over again.”

I clear my throat. “I’m still trying to get over the fact you drank wine from the skulls of your enemies.” Not sure I’mevergoing to get over that fact.

Memnon gives me a tight smile; then his eyes drop to my body, his gaze lingering on my ravaged shoulder. “I need to finish healing you, Empress. I’m going to have to roll you onto your stomach.”

I start to flip myself over, but then his hands are there, guiding me so I don’t jostle my injuries.

Gently, he removes the last of my shredded clothing still clinging to my back. Once the cool air kisses my skin, Memnon inhales sharply, presumably at the sight of my injuries.

“To think you never once believed yourself a true warrior-queen,” he mutters under his breath. I’m pretty sure the reference applies to Roxilana, not me. “You carry battle wounds that would make the fiercest of my fighters proud.”

“It’s that bad?” Memnon’s earlier spell is still blocking me from feeling pain.

The sorcerer runs a light hand around the injuries, and I close my eyes at the touch. It still feels unnervingly good.

“Heal these wounds,” he murmurs in Sarmatian.“Mend the flesh. Remake it as it was.”

His magic feels like a warm breath against my back. And then that warmth seeps into my skin, turning uncomfortable—almost itchy—and I know even without looking that the flesh is reforming, the wounds healing.

I lie there confused about how the evening went from me attending a spell circle for a little extra cash to being nearly killed by bloodthirsty witches and now being healed by my mortal enemy.

The warm press of magic fades, and Memnon smooths his hand down my back. I exhale at the sensation of his palm against my skin. There’s just something about the feel of his hands—hands that have led armies and killed and lifted chalices made from his foes’ skulls—that’s so damn intoxicating.

Pretty sure enjoying this makes me a rotten human. Oh well, maybe I’ll care tomorrow.

Memnon pauses, as though he senses my thoughts.

“Est amage,” he murmurs, “do you like that? I will keep touching you if you do. All you have to say is the word, and it is yours.”

Shit, maybe he does know my thoughts.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my nose. I sense that everything with this man comes at a price. He’s not naming it, but it must be there.

But given all that’s happened tonight…screw it.

“I like it,” I admit.

His hand doesn’t move.Whyis his hand not moving? I wiggle a little, trying to get it going.

“Let me see your face,” he demands.

I turn to look at him. “Why?”

His eyes gaze at me intensely. “Because you are the only thing worth looking at, and my eyes have missed you.”

I frown. “I thought you hated me.”

He leans forward and runs a knuckle down my spine, and I feel myself arch, stretching like a cat against his touch. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Empress.”

I understand what he means. I want to hate this man’s guts—I know Ishould—but I don’t.

“Close your eyes and relax, and I will touch you,” he says.

I narrow my gaze. “Why should I trust you?”

He flashes me a sly smile. “You make a good point. There is only one person in the entire world who truly can trust me, and I’m staring at her.” His hand smooths over my back again, and I bite back the sound that wants to come out.

Going to make the supremely bad decision to trust this man because why not? I’ve already made fifty other bad choices; what’s one more?