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Memnon reaches out, and I shrink away. He scowls when he sees my reaction, but that doesn’t stop him from cupping my cheeks and tilting my head up.

One of his thumbs strokes my cheek. “You have my Roxi’s same blue eyes, down to the white line that rings the inside of them.” He tilts my face to the side, moving one of his hands to touch something near my ear. “You have the same two freckles she had right here.” As Memnon speaks, his eyes soften.

His hand moves to my hair, and it’s as though he’s forgotten himself and his vendetta for a moment. His touch is almost reverent as he runs his fingers along the strands. I find myself mesmerized by it.

“And this hair,” he says, “is the same cinnamon color my Roxi’s was.” He drops my hair then, his other hand still cupping my face. “You have a birthmark on the back of your left thigh, and your second toes are longer than your big ones. Shall I go on?”

I stare at him like I’ve seen a ghost. “H-how do you know those things about me?” I say.

His brows come together in confusion. “Whywouldn’tI know those things? I have spent years mapping you out—as you have me.”

What?

Almost instinctively, my gaze moves to that scar of his. Memnon has many distinct features, but that scar is perhaps the most prominent of them.

Seeing where my attention is drawn, he says softly, “You can touch it,est amage.”

I shouldn’t.

It feels at best like a bad idea and at worst, a trap. That doesn’t stop me from stepping into Memnon’s space and reaching out a tentative hand. The moment my fingers touch the puckered skin of his scar, his eyes close and his nostrils flare.

Memnon stands as still as stone while I draw my fingers along the path of it, moving first to his ear, then down toward his chin.

“This looks like it hurt,” I murmur.

He makes a noncommittal sound. Because of course it hurt. It must’ve been awful.

I get to the end of the scar, and reluctantly, I let my hand drop.

When Memnon opens his eyes again, I don’t see any trace of his anger. Instead, there’s longing so deep, it makes my stomach flip.

“Wife,” he breathes, his eyes moving to my lips.

I swallow, my own gaze going to his mouth. I want to kiss him again, just to taste his yearning. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me that way.

But I’m not his wife. Whatever wonderful, tragic love story he had, it wasn’t with me.

I place a hand to my temple, trying to clear away my own desire. “How do you know English?” I say distractedly, just to get my mind off kissing him.

“You know my power,” he says, almost obstinately, as though he thinks I’m still lying. “You know I can pull what I want from the minds of others, including language.”

My eyes widen.

He can dowhatnow?

Memnon tilts his head. “Why are you still pretending with me, Empress?” he asks, some of that earlier anger seeping back into his eyes.

“I’m not pretending anything, Memnon.”

“Then how do you know Sarmatian, the language of my people? Supposedly, it’s been a dead language for many, many centuries.”

So that’s the language I’ve been speaking. Sarmatian. “I know several inexplicable—”

“It’s not inexplicable,” Memnon insists before I can finish. “It’s proof of your life with me.”

I give him a look. “This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Memnon.”

His gaze grows intense. “No, nearly everything in my life is aboutyou.”