Page 15

Enjoy your wife.

My mind keeps snagging on Nero’s parting words.

I’ve been so caught up in avoiding marriage to Quadratus that I hadn’t really processed what being married to Memnon might mean or what that future would actually look like.

But I’m processing it now, as a palace servant escorts us and the rest of Memnon’s men to the rooms we’re to stay in here at Nero’s palace. Gods, am I processing it.

The jubilance I should be feeling is marred by the reality of the last several hours. Memnon’s violence, his foreboding magic, and the secrets he kept from me—secrets like the fact he is a literal king —all of it makes me feel like perhaps I was very, very naive to agree to any of this.

Perhaps I made a grave mistake.

The male servant shows us first the rooms where Memnon’s men will be staying, then he takes the group of us to…ours.

The servant stops in front of a wooden door and opens it. Deep within, I catch sight of rich red walls illuminated by flickering light.

“Your rooms, good king,” the servant says.

Memnon inclines his head in thanks, and the servant dips his head and parts, leaving the group of us alone.

I eye the bedroom. I’m afraid to go in.

I don’t know if he hears my thoughts or not, but Memnon places a gentle hand on my back. “Go ahead,” he urges softly. “I need to speak with my men for a moment.”

Haltingly, I enter the room, the tread of my sandals loud within the crimson walls of the chamber. Detailed frescos adorn them, most depictions of various myths, none of which end well for the woman.

I glance back to the doorway of our room, where Memnon speaks softly to one of his men, our marriage document tucked under one of his arms. I take a moment to stare at that broad back and the black hair that cascades down it, and I try to see the familiarity in it.

There is none. For as intimately as I’ve known Memnon’s mind, physically, he’s still a stranger to me.

Memnon clasps the warrior he speaks with on the shoulder, and with that, his men depart, the sounds of their footfalls and rustling armor growing fainter and fainter, until Memnon and I are painfully alone.

The Sarmatian king turns to me then, and I cannot help the bolt of terror that courses through my veins. Partly it’s his physical presence, but I think it’s more the memory of the way Memnon controlled an entire room against their will and the way none of them seemed to remember it afterward.

If Memnon could do that to an emperor , what might he do to me?

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says hoarsely in Sarmatian as he enters the room, placing the marriage document on a side table.

“Like what?” I respond in his mother tongue.

“Like you are afraid,” he says, crossing over to me, the weapons that were returned to him now shifting with his movements.

I open my mouth to deny it, but the words don’t come. “I am afraid,” I finally whisper, edging away from him.

When he notices, he stops.

The two of us spend a moment staring at each other. He’s painfully handsome, and there’s an undeniable thrum between us. But I am unnerved by him. This isn’t at all how I imagined our first meeting going.

“You bent an entire room to your will—you could’ve overthrown the emperor himself,” I say.

Memnon watches me carefully. “I did,” he agrees. “And yes, I could’ve.”

I expected him to defend himself, and it throws me that he doesn’t. “How is what you did even possible?” I finally ask.

He ducks his head, his jaw tightening. “I recently discovered that I have a certain…extra ability,” he admits. “I can read people’s minds with a touch and alter their memories through my will.” Slowly, his gaze lifts from the ground to mine.

My breath catches. “So I cannot do what you just did?”

The corner of his mouth curves up. “No.”

I take that in. “Will you ever alter my mind?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

The smile vanishes from his face, and for an instant, I see woundedness of all things. “Never.”

“Never?” I repeat, skeptical. A power like that is far too tempting.

“I will swear an unbreakable oath on it, my queen,” he says.

I don’t know what an unbreakable oath even is, but I’m in no mood to be making pacts with this man. Besides, curiously enough, I believe him.

My gaze floats up to the golden circlet he wears. “I don’t want your oath… King .” I don’t know how to say that word in Sarmatian.

It’s xsaya , Memnon offers.

I tuck that bit of information away for later. I draw in a shaky breath, then blow it out. “How long have you been a ruler?”

“Four years,” he eventually admits.

Four entire years.

“And you never thought to tell me?” I say softly, hurt at the omission.

Memnon has the grace to look apologetic. “I didn’t want you to see me as anything but Memnon— your Memnon.”

My Memnon. And now he really is mine.

His eyes search my own. “Do I unnerve you still?” he asks.

I hadn’t realized he had noticed, but of course, through our connection, I cannot hide anything.

When I don’t immediately answer, his eyes flicker. “It’s my appearance, then.”

I cannot deny that his large, battle-scarred body is partly to blame.

Memnon withdraws the gold-hilted dagger at his side. I stumble back at the sight of it, but I’ve no sooner moved away from him than Memnon gathers his unbound hair and brings the edge of the blade to his thick, dark locks.

His intentions register an instant before his arm moves. With one brutal stroke, he slices off his hair.

I let out a startled cry. “What are you doing?” I say, my eyes round.

Memnon drops the shorn locks to the ground, then grabs a clump of the remaining shoulder-length hair, cutting into it once more.

“S-stop!” I insist.

Reluctantly, he does so. But when he meets my eyes, I still see determination in them.

“Memn—”

He grasps his beard and begins to saw away at it too, taking out patches at a time. Somehow, it looks even worse than his shorn hair.

“Memnon, stop!” A bit of magic enters my voice, and my power reaches out, prying his hand and weapon away from his face.

But it’s too late. The choppy sections of hair that remain look ridiculous, especially his beard.

I swallow as I take it in.

“You’ve ruined your hair,” I say. All of it.

“It was frightening you.” In his words, I hear the boy I grew up with—the vulnerable, sweet boy who whispered kind words to me late at night and confessed truths he told no one else.

My eyes sting. “Oh, Memnon,” I say softly. I move to him. “You don’t need to change yourself to please me.” Tentatively, I reach out a hand. “Give me that blade.”

Without a word, he flips the dagger in his hand, holding the hilt out to me. I take it from him, then move to his back. Unlike me, he doesn’t tense or balk at the fact that I’m holding a weapon so close to him.

His hair is even worse than I first thought. I touch several bluntly shorn strands of it, trying not to react at the feel of it between my fingers or the fact that I can smell the perfumed oil he must’ve rubbed onto it. How many days I imagined touching this hair…

I don’t think I ever imagined it would be in this context.

I’m not sure how much of his hair is even salvageable, and I am no hairdresser.

“You are better off sticking to violence,” I murmur, continuing to run my fingers through the thick locks. I swear I see a shiver pass through him, but otherwise he holds still as I inspect the damage. “I’m going to try to fix your hair, but I’ll need you to kneel.”

I place a hand on Memnon’s shoulder, and now I know I’m not imagining his reaction. Through our bond, I feel a burst of pleasure at my touch.

He lowers himself obediently, though after he does so, he glances over his shoulder. “Is this all just some elaborate ploy to get a king on his knees before you?”

“Memnon,” I admonish.

He laughs, and my eyes are caught on that smile. “What?” he says innocently.

But now I’m grinning as I step in close. I bring Memnon’s heavy dagger up to his locks, marveling at how big the blade is. Grabbing a longer section of hair, I begin to saw at the strands. Memnon’s blade is wicked sharp, and it slices through the hair fairly easily.

I’ve never done this before , I admit down our connection.

I trust you.

My stomach twists at the admission, and I feel strange, unmoored. I trim another lock. Your long hair must have meant something to you , I say. All of Memnon’s men had worn it similarly long.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. It’s hair. It will grow back.

Bit by bit, I shape his hair. Unfortunately, between the deep cuts he made to it and my own novice skill, I have to cut away most of it. The wavy locks that remain fall to the nape of his neck—or else they slip over his eyes.

Once I’m finished, I move around to his front and look at the uneven tufts of his beard. It really is worse than his hair. Parts of it have been cut all the way down to his skin.

I kneel before him and reach for his face, only pausing a finger span away. “Can I touch you?”

He makes an amused sound. “I rode for two months so that I might feel your embrace.” His eyes dance like fire. “Of course you can touch me.”

My breath hitches at his admission, and something as hot and bright as lightning courses between us. Lowering my gaze, I run my fingers through Memnon’s beard, marveling at the bristly texture of it. As I do so, he closes his eyes, a smile touching his lips.

It’s all going to have to go , I say.

He opens his eyes. “Do it.”

I try to ignore that burning gaze as I bring the dagger’s edge up to his jawline. If I knew little about cutting hair, I know even less about this. Luckily, I have a little magic to work with.

I use it now, calling on it to guide my movements as I draw the blade up his cheek, cutting away his facial hair.

Memnon stays still and lets me—for the most part. I notice that when I cup his face to get the angle of the cut just right, he leans into the touch. And just now, when my fingers graze his cheek, he turns and casually brushes his lips against them.

I narrow my eyes, even as I smother a smile. “You’re a sneaky, wicked man,” I say.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

I get to the section of his beard that obscures the bottom of his scar. Once I cut the hair away, I trace the thickened line of flesh, frowning. “This looks like it hurt.”

At my touch, Memnon’s eyes close again. “It did,” he murmurs, “but I am grateful for it.”

I move to his jaw and shave away the last bits of his facial hair.

“Why is that?” I ask, focusing on my work. I cannot imagine being grateful for something so heinous.

“Because it made you stroke my skin.”

He opens his eyes and gazes down at where I kneel in front of him. That look again. I feel it in my very marrow, just as I have felt it before across our connection. My blood heats as I recognize it for what it is.

Longing.

I lower the blade, my gaze dropping to Memnon’s lips. Want flares through me at the sight of them.

Those lips are mine .

The thought surprises me.

They are , Memnon agrees. All of me is yours.

I drag my gaze back to his eyes, and once more I see that yearning. I could swim in the depths of it, it’s so vast. And it matches the ache within me, the one I thought I’d have to live with forever.

But I no longer have to simply yearn for Memnon; he’s right here.

Of course you can touch me , he’d said moments ago. I hope he meant it.

I place a hand on his smooth cheek. There’s no point in denying this pull I’ve felt to him. Without another thought, I lean in.

The moment our mouths meet, it’s heat and flint and sparks. A shiver runs through me, and down our bond, I feel Memnon’s elation.

His calloused hands cup my face so, so gently as his lips respond to mine, each sweep of them coaxing.

I drop his dagger, the weapon landing on the ground with a heavy clink. Then my hands are on him, skimming over his metal armor and the taut, warm flesh of his neck before I thread my fingers through his hair. I cling to him like I might fall away if I let go.

I can feel the full power of him then. Not just his physical muscle, but the magic he’s steeped in. I swear I taste it—on his lips, his tongue. I’m breathing it in and bathing in it.

The longer we kiss, the more I notice this growing, spiraling need within me, one that I don’t fully understand but that has me tugging at Memnon’s armor.

Against my lips, he laughs softly.

I stiffen at the sound, and heat floods my cheeks at the mocking edge of it.

No, no, my queen, not mocking, never mocking , he insists. I have dreamed of this moment for years, and still it surpasses my wildest imaginings. He runs the back of his index finger along my cheek.

His words banish my worry, and I’m simply happy. So unbelievably happy.

Memnon pulls away then, though he still holds my face in his hands. Around us, the air is obscured by our mixed magic—orange and blue, and where it’s thoroughly mixed, a bruise-hued purple.

Memnon searches my features, his hands warm against my cheeks.

“I cannot believe you are here in my arms.” He smiles again, just as he did after we spoke our vows, and like then, it lights up his entire face, crinkling the skin around his eyes and softening that scar he wears.

“I am sure I am the happiest man who’s ever lived. ”

His eyes search mine and carefully, so carefully, he brushes back the strands of hair that have slipped free from my braided updo. “My wife . My Roxilana.”

Wife . I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face at the title.

My eyes move over his face then, taking in his features as he did mine. His sun-bronzed skin, his smoky-amber eyes, his subtly hooked nose and high cheekbones.

“My husband.”

His eyes crinkle at their corners, and though my lips feel swollen, I have to fight the desire to pull him to me once more.

He runs a hand over his smooth jaw. “Do I now look like the pretty Roman boy you imagined me to be?” he asks, mirth in his tone.

With his shorn hair and his clean-shaven face, he could nearly pass for a Roman.

“I couldn’t imagine anyone as breathtaking as you are,” I admit.

I think it’s finally settling in now that he is real, he is here, and he is mine .

Memnon takes my hand and clasps it between his. “Always yours.”