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I tried to look down at my body, willing myself to move. It don’t work, and I groaned in pure frustration.

Linden sighed, theatrically. “We’re going to be married, Mally. You, me, and the baby will have every advantage. You don’t know what the others have planned for you. For your child.” He shook his head, then leaned in closer. “Oonagh is preparing the memory adjustment as we speak. By tomorrow morning, you’ll remember nothing except how much you love me. And you’ll be free of all that unpleasantness.”

Something inside me snapped. Words came out, albeit sounding like a drunk hopped up on Novocain. “You’re telling me you kidnapped a pregnant woman to marry her? That’s a new level of desperation, even for you, Linden.”

He frowned, then seemed to understand what I’d slurred out. He laughed, delighted. “You always did have a sharp tongue. I love that about you.” His eyes softened.

Gross.

I tried to sit up, but my arms buckled beneath me. “You can’t do this. Etienne will kill you.”

Linden’s smile faded, replaced by a look of pity. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mally. There is no Etienne. Not for you. You’ll forget him, and everyone else. And we will move away to start our life together.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Oonagh is a master. She’s done this a thousand times. You’ll be the perfect wife.”

Thousands of times. That seemed unlikely. But once would be one time too many.

I felt my pulse thud in my neck. The thought of forgetting Etienne—my whole life, my children, my family—made me want to scream. Instead, I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. “You’re forgetting something, Linden.”

He cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Witches are very, very hard to reprogram. We are all different.”

He blinked. “Oonagh has accounted for that.”

I looked around the room, taking inventory of my possible weapons. The only sharp object was a crystal vase filled with lilies. The curtains were too heavy to strangle anyone with, and the only other exit was blocked by a wall of spell work so dense I could practically taste the ozone. It didn’t leave me with a lot of options.

“Why me?” I asked, trying to buy time. “You could have had any woman. Why bother with all this?”

He frowned, as if this had never occurred to him. “Because you’re special. You’re the only witch I’ve ever loved.”

Was he serious?

“And this baby—” He gestured to my belly. “This baby is the most magical child—probably ever. Imagine what it will be, with the right parents.”

I laughed, which turned into a coughing fit. “You’re not the right parent, Linden. You’re not even the right species.”

He bristled. “I’m a warlock. A powerful warlock. I’m more than enough. And I’m doing you a favor. Once you forget Etienne and the rest of your so-called family, you’ll thank me.”

I doubted that very much, but I kept it to myself.

He reached out and took my hand, squeezing it with a tenderness that would have made my skin crawl if my nerve endings hadn’t all gone on strike. “Rest up,” he said. “I’ll see you at the altar.”

He stood and straightened his robes, then paused in the doorway, turning back to look at me. “You always look beautiful in candlelight. I asked them to set the ceremony for midnight. Very dramatic.”

He left, and the door clicked shut behind him.

I stared at the ceiling, trying not to panic. I focused on my breath, on saving my baby, on the slow return of feeling to my fingers and toes. Linden might think he had won, but I still had my wits. And maybe, just maybe, my magic.

The lilies trembled in their vase, and a single petal dropped to the floor as I tried to focus my magic. Pitifully as usual.

I didn’t have much time to wallow in self-pity, though. There was a click at the door, and a sliver of light painted the silhouette of Oonagh Licorne—a true b-word of a witch. She glided in, all silver and stiletto, carrying a lacquered tray topped with an ornate teapot and two delicate cups.

“Awake already? Oonagh said, her voice like sugary sweet arsenic. “Good. We like our brides lively.”

She set the tray on the nightstand and poured tea, her motions precise and terrifyingly maternal. Her white blonde hair was swept into an updo so complicated it looked like a wig. Maybe it was. Her dress—no, gown—was black and shimmered with tiny mirrors, throwing flecks of light across the room every time she moved.

She pressed a cup to my lips. “Drink. You’ll need your strength for tonight.”