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Oh.

My eyes drop from Memnon’s weeping wound to the bloody blade held loosely in his grip, my stomach churning.

I’m supposed to do it too, aren’t I?I ask, dragging my gaze up to Memnon.

A muscle in his jaw jumps, like maybe he hadn’t thought through this part—or perhaps he regrets it.Yes.

I’m unnerved and perhaps a touch frightened, but I can feel our audience’s curious eyes on me, and with every moment that passes, the tension grows tauter. This is not a place where weakness thrives.

I extend my hand for the blade. If Memnon or anyone else notices how I shake when it is placed in my grip, they don’t say.

My fingers wrap around the warm gold hilt. The blade is still bloody, and I have to draw in a fortifying breath to calm my rising nerves.

Pushing my sleeve up, I gingerly place the edge of dagger to my inner forearm, ignoring how Memnon’s blood smears onto my skin.

Zosines readies the drinking horn beneath my limb, and if I hesitate for much longer, the crowd will notice. I choose to look into Memnon’s eyes, drawing courage from him. He gives me a small, proud nod, and before I can reconsider, I force the blade down my arm, holding Memnon’s luminous gaze as I cut open my flesh.

The pain comes an inhalation later, and it’s a shock, an incredible shock. I gasp, dropping Memnon’s blade, as warm, rich blood spills from the wound and into the waiting drinking horn Zosines holds in place.

You did well, little witch, Memnon praises me, an odd mixture of concern and pride warring in his features.The pain will be over soon.The ceremony is nearly complete.

He steps into my space and clasps my hand in his, our bloody forearms pressed together. Zosines gives my husband the horn of bloodied wine, and Memnon holds it up between us as though in offering.

“I drink of your essence and of mine,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “Just as our blood is now one, so too are we.” Bringing the horn to his lips, he takes several long, deep swallows of the drink before handing it to me.

I glance uneasily at the liquid in my grip. I’ve had spiced wine many, many times, but never was it seasoned quite like this. I can feel Memnon’s and my blood mingling; aside from sex, this is the closest we’ll ever be.

“I drink of your essence and of mine,” I say softly. “Just as our blood is now one, so too are we.” I tilt the horn back and swallow down the liquid, the wine largely masking our blood’s metallic taste.

Once I’m finished, I lower the drinking horn, my eyes meeting Memnon’s luminous ones.

The final line we say together, Memnon tells me. He whispers it across our bond.

He gives my hand a squeeze, and we speak as one: “For good, for ill, and for always, my life is bound with yours.”

His magic and mine ignite where we grip each other, the flames from it scorching our palms and burning up our arms, sealing our wounds and binding us together in the process. Our power sinks into our skin and I sense it traveling through my veins before settling beneath my sternum.

I stare at the remaining magic smoking off our arms.Was that…supposed to happen?

But Memnon’s not looking at our clasped hands. He’s been staring at me, his expression fervent.Yes,he breathes into my mind.Finally.He sounds both relieved and delighted.Our fleshand our souls are fully joined to one another. Where one goes, the other must follow.

I don’t follow the nuance he sees in this moment, but it doesn’t matter. His ardent words and intense expression are enough to make my breath hitch and giddy warmth to spread through my veins.

Mischief sparks in those irises of his.Now, little witch, there was something I meant to do the first time I married you, he says.

What was that?I say, searching his gaze.

Kiss you.He pulls me in and presses his lips to mine.

In my shock, I drop the horn, letting the last of the bloody wine spill across the ground as Memnon’s lips sweep over mine.

Around us, the cheers turn to whistles and howls. My skin pricks at the noise, but I’m too consumed by the taste and feel of Memnon to pay it much mind.

When he pulls away, his lips glisten. He grins then, the flash of his canines making his smile a little wolfish. I smile right back, drunk on this moment.

The priest steps forward, holding a golden diadem in their hands. It is fringed with dangling gold beads and inset with smooth, round rubies.

I realize as the priest raises it above me that this ismycrown, that right in this moment, I’m not just marrying Memnon but also getting coronated.