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His hair is brushed back from his face, revealing the scar that runs from his eye to ear to jaw. He’s frowning, and I’d say he’s angry, except there’s a touch of confusion in his eyes.

He pushes away from the wall, his bewitching magic unfurling like a flower. “And what in the gods’ names is that smell? It’s worse than those Roman dishes you made me try—”

“Don’t youdarecome in,” I warn him, gripping the counter behind me to hold myself up. My legs want to buckle at the sight of him. This is the man who might’ve murdered one of my coven sisters.

And he hates me.

Memnon lifts his chin, even as his magic snaps in annoyance. “Or what?” He squares his shoulders, taking a calculated step into the room. “What will my long-lost wife do to me now?”

It’s only now that I realize we’re, once again, speaking that other language. It stirs strange feelings in me I can’t make sense of. The one thing I can identify is my terror rushing through me the longer I stare at this ancient sorcerer.

My heart bangs against the walls of my chest as though it’s desperate to get out.

He tilts his head, taking in my expression.

A flash of something enters his eyes, but then it’s gone just as quickly.

“Now the fear comes,” he says. “Are you realizing, my queen, that you have a reckoning to receive?”

“I swear to the goddess, I will scream so loud, I’ll bring this whole damn house down on you.”

Memnon pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Thatis your threat, Roxilana? To scream loudly? What game are you playing?” he says.

He keeps asking this same question, and Goddess, but the only thing worse than a vengeful sorcerer is a vengeful, confused one.

“I will tell you what I know,” I whisper, “if you stop coming closer.”

Memnon must want answers desperately because he does halt in his tracks.

My gaze sweeps over him. He wears a formfitting white shirt, revealing his inked forearms. It’s partially tucked into loose black fatigues, which are then tucked into heavy leather combat boots. Gone is the ancient warrior I woke. He looks every inch like some modern special ops soldier.

His power ripples off him like steam from boiling water, and it strikes me all over again that this man is asorcererof all things; he doesn’t seem correctly cast for the role. He’s not supposed to have muscles and power. That’s, like, cheating.

Shit, maybe that’s why he’s cursed. Something has to even out the playing field with this man.

Memnon’s expression heats at my perusal, but I can still sense his blistering wrath. “I’m waiting.”

“Yes, well, give me a moment—you make a girl want to wet herself.”

Shit.

Did that just come out of my mouth?

Did that just come out of my mouth?

Memnon’s eyebrows rise; then a self-satisfied look spreads across his face.

My cheeks heat. “Because y-you’re scary, and I’m t-trying not to pee my pants,” I stammer.

Honestly, just bury me now and save me from myself.

He begins to close the distance between us again.

I put a hand out. “Stay back!” I warn him.

Memnon knocks my hand away as though it’s nothing more than a nuisance, and he steps into my space.

“Roxilana,” he growls, gazing down at me. My skin pebbles at the guttural sound of that name on this man’s lips. It’s not evenmy name, yet it’s affecting me. How twisted is that?