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“Memnon,” I gasp, my hand covering his as I glance over his shoulder to the settlement in the distance. “What are you doing?”

Memnon smiles. “Making your capture take longer.” Then he tugs down my pants.

The feel of his roughened palms on my bare thighs feels unreasonably good. It always does. There’s magic in his touch, magic that has nothing to do with our supernatural abilities.

I glance uncertainly at the distant camp again, still nervous, until deep blue plumes of Memnon’s magic shroud them from sight and a phantom hand tilts my head back down to him.

“They cannot see you,” he reassures me. He runs a thumb along the seam of my sex, eliciting a hiss from me. “Now,” Memnon continues, “would you prefer I taste you while you’re standing or while you’re reclining?”

“Taste?” I suck in a breath at the thought, even as that languid warmth begins to pool between my thighs.

“Reclining it is,” Memnon announces.

His magic does the rest, dragging my torso back until I gently hit the ground.

My legs are trapped together at the ankles by my lowered pants and my soft leather boots, and Memnon uses this to his advantage, lifting my bound feet up and spreading my legs wide enough for him to slip beneath them and settle my thighs on either of his shoulders.

Any lingering resistance I might still have is banished by the first brush of Memnon’s lips against my slit. Without meaning to, I shift my hips, my legs falling farther open.

Memnon huffs out a laugh at my body’s response, his hands lovingly sliding up my thighs.

He presses kisses up and down my outer lips, gently nipping at them as he goes. I let out a moan and reach for his head, eager to thread my fingers through that rich, dark hair of his. His magic, however, presses my arms back, pinning them together above my head.

“What are you doing?” I ask, wriggling. I feel like meat on a spit.

Memnon pauses his work to look up, and I can’t help but notice the obvious desire in his eyes and the soft smirk on his lips. “Keeping you at my mercy.”

I’m reminded then that this ritual is about capture and surrender.

I will make your surrender memorable , he said.

Memnon’s arms pull my thighs apart as much as possible, and then he leans in.

No longer is he interested in teasing me. His tongue dips into my opening, and then his mouth finds that point right above it, the one that makes my muscles tense and pleasure coil in my belly.

He sucks on that fold, his teeth lightly scraping over it every so often. I writhe and shift beneath him, my hips tilting uselessly, my arms tugging at their magical bindings.

I want to feel him—my hands in his hair, his heavy body against mine, my heels dragging down his back.

I want his warmth and the friction of his form, and the absence of it makes me feel caged within my own skin.

The conflicting sensations seem to only wind me tighter and tighter, until I’m taut and poised like the string of a bow.

I think Memnon knows it too and is eager to watch me come undone because, amidst all of it, I feel a phantom finger stroke along the edge of my entrance.

That’s all it takes.

If I was a bowstring before, then my orgasm is the arrow, shooting through my body. I come with a cry, my release swallowing me up.

Between my legs, Memnon groans, his hold tightening as he must feel an echo of my release down our bond.

When he looks up at me, his mouth glistens with my slick, and his eyes have the barest edge of a glow to them.

Idly, he strokes a hand up and down my skin, his gaze finding mine.

“Love watching you come—and feeling it too.”

Gently, Memnon lifts my thighs from his shoulders and disentangles himself. But the moment his skin is gone, his magic is there, tugging my pants back up my body and releasing my arms.

I sit up, my gaze finding the far-off settlement.

“I think we’ve been gone appropriately long,” Memnon says, leaning over me and pulling out a long blade of grass from my hair.

I stare at that blade and bite my lower lip. “They’re all going to know what we’ve been doing out here.”

Memnon laughs. “And absolutely no one will argue that we are not a strong match. But,” he says, picking off another strand of dead foliage from my hair, “if you prefer, I could use my magic and clean you off.

I stand up and dust my hands. “I don’t prefer it,” I decide. I think I like the idea that they can see him all over me.

I glance down. “Come, husband.” I reach out a hand for him. “You’ve thoroughly captured me, and I’m at your whim. Now let’s go get married.”

We stand before the settlement’s sacred fire, the flames dancing high into the sky.

An Anarya priest stands before us, their masculine form clothed in a long, feminine kurta, a tall headdress resting on their brow.

Around us, the camp’s inhabitants have gathered, Memnon’s closest kin and friends standing nearest us. Ferox sits at my side like a sentinel.

“Today we bear witness to the binding of these two souls,” the priest announces, their age-roughened voice carrying across the small clearing. They incline their head to Memnon, indicating for him to speak.

My husband’s eyes shine more than usual as he takes me in. “From the gods that made me to the gods that take me,” Memnon recites, “from this first breath to my last, I am yours.”

As I stare into Memnon’s smoky-amber eyes, the sensation that flows over me is something out of a dream. Too strange and joyous to be real.

He gives my hand a squeeze. It’s your turn to say the vows.

My heart beats fast as I haltingly repeat what Memnon said. “From the gods that made me to the…”

Gods that take me , Memnon fills in for me.

“—gods that take me.” I smile at him, my hands trembling in his. “From this first breath to my last, I am yours.”

Memnon grins wide, the expression reaching all the way up to the corners of his eyes, while the people around us cheer.

“And now, the bloodletting,” the priest says.

Bloodletting?

Memnon unsheathes his gold-hilted dagger and Zosines approaches us, holding a drinking horn that’s partially filled with wine. I stare, alarmed, as Memnon pushes up the shirtsleeve of his arm, then brings the edge of his dagger to the light brown skin there.

Memnon, what’s going on?

There’s iron in his voice: Making you mine.

Zosines angles the drinking horn roughly under Memnon’s arm right before my husband drags the blade across his skin, parting the flesh.

A dizzying amount of blood wells up, then spills from the wound, dripping down Memnon’s arm before Zosines catches it in the drinking horn, where it mixes with the wine. I sway a little on my feet at the sight of the wound.

You didn’t tell me about this part of the ceremony.

Memnon’s gaze meets mine, and I can see both guilt and resolve in it. I’m sorry.

Zosines turns his attention to me, that bloody drinking horn still clasped in his hand. I can sense other gazes now turning to me.

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.