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I swallow, not ready for this question, despite the weeks I’ve had to consider my feelings where Memnon is concerned.

This is a broader issue than Roman death threats or him misusing his magic or me, and there is no single answer I can give him as to why I’ve been hurting; it’s more a tangled web of reasons that have all knotted together.

So I settle on the most obvious one. “You gave up too much,” I say softly.

I don’t say what, precisely, he gave up, but we both know what I speak of—Memnon’s compassion. It was at the heart of everything he did for his people. And he sacrificed most of it to save me.

Memnon shakes his head. “I did not, not when it comes to you.” He takes my hand and laces his fingers between my own.

“I would’ve given up more if that’s what it took to get you back.

I would follow you to the ends of the earth—into the very afterlife if I had to.

Do you understand?” His eyes search mine.

“This palace, my power, my people—it all comes second to us .”

With my free hand, I stroke his cheek as he gazes down at me. It hurts all the more that he did this for me. He lost so much because I died, if only for a short time.

“That look is still in your eyes,” he notes.

“It will probably continue to be there for a long time,” I admit.

Memnon frowns, and I can feel his dissatisfaction with that. “What would it take for it to go away?”

Lying naked here before Memnon, who still wears his crown and all his armored regalia, it doesn’t feel like the right moment to voice this. But he’s waiting and seemingly willing to hear what I have to say, so I answer, softly, “I want you to stop attacking Rome.”

My stomach twists at the admission. It feels like I’m abandoning my slain family and throwing Nero’s mocking letter in Memnon’s face by saying this, but the truth is that I’m tired of the violence.

There might never be an end to the endless fighting, but I want an end to this needless escalation, escalation that Eislyn continuously encourages.

Memnon’s expression grows a touch remorseful. “It is too late to stop,” he says. “Even if we did, Rome would not back down. They will not stop until we are dead or they are defeated.”

I know this about Rome. This is how their empire works. But Memnon is bigger than Rome and their machinations.

I pause stroking his face, laying my palm flat against his cheek.

“You are not just a sorcerer,” I say to him.

“You are Memnon the Indomitable, King of the Sarmatians, Unifier of the Steppe Nations. You can alter minds and dismantle entire armies. You can do anything you wish. So wish for something better than death and destruction.”

Memnon stares at me a long moment, and his throat works. His emotions are a mix of reticence and maybe even disappointment, but those are far overshadowed by his devotion.

He nods slowly. “Maybe,” he finally whispers.

Surprise rushes through me. He’s considering it? Truly?

I smile, my joy spreading through me. I shouldn’t hope, not when hope can be a fickle god. But I cannot seem to help myself.

Memnon’s eyes drop to my lips, and his expression morphs into something calculated and hungry.

“Enough strategizing. I have missed you, my queen. Now open your thighs, so I can apologize properly for that look in your eyes.”

The two of us stare at one another as I spread my legs.

“Wider,” Memnon commands.

Memnon moves away from me long enough to gaze at my core. Already, I can feel him hard and thick, his cock trapped beneath his pants.

His magic undresses him as he moves down my body, his kurta, tunic, trousers, and boots peeling off his body as he lowers himself, his gaze moving to the juncture between my thighs.

Once he’s just as naked as I am, Memnon leans in and his mouth finds my folds. I gasp at the first bright burst of pleasure his lips coax out, my hands threading through his hair.

“You are going to come on my mouth,” he says against me, “then twice again when I’m inside you.”

One would think that after an entire day of ruling people, he’d be sick of giving orders.

“You’re awfully bossy for a penitent man.”

I feel his wicked grin against my skin. “Giving you multiple orgasms is my apology.”

I have to stop myself from laughing. This apology is merely a ruse for whatever intimacies Memnon had already fixed his mind on.

“So long, of course, as my obedient wife cooperates.”

My fingers tighten in his hair. He knows exactly what phrases will rile me up. “And if I don’t?” I say.

He nips that small, sensitive knot of skin above my opening, and a choked cry falls from my lips. “Then I will bring you to the edge of release.” He presses a kiss to my tender flesh. “Only to deny you of it until you obey me.”

“ Memnon ,” I warn him.

His only reaction is to laugh against my skin, the sound raising the hairs along my arms. “I like that tone you get. I hope you challenge me. I would enjoy holding your pleasure hostage.”

Before I can respond, he resumes kissing and licking my pussy, and wave after wave of sensation rapidly builds in me. I’m going to come fast.

His mouth returns to that particularly sensitive fold, and I gasp, my hips bucking against him.

I can feel his mirth across our bond. That’s it, grind yourself against my face. I don’t need air when I can simply breathe you in.

I’m sweaty, panting, and Memnon’s words only serve to draw me tauter than a bowstring.

His tongue delves into my opening, and he groans, presumably at the taste of me, his grip tightening on my thighs. But it’s his reaction that drives me wild, and my hips buck against him, searching out more of it.

It feels as though he’s everywhere, his lips grazing all that sensitive flesh, his tongue inside me, his fingers or his magic stroking the rest of my skin.

That’s all it takes.

Arching my back, I come with a cry, my legs tightening around Memnon’s head.

He groans again, either from the echo of my orgasm across our bond or my physical response to it. His tongue laps up my climax, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until I am boneless in his arms.

Only then does Memnon lift himself from my pussy, the lamplight casting his face into stark relief. The shadows outline the jagged scar on the side of his face and the almost-feral gleam in his eyes.

I’m still bared for him, and between my fluids and his tongue, there’s enough gathered wetness for him to merely grip one of my hips and sink himself into me in a single fluid stroke.

It’s my turn to moan as his cock stretches me.

He begins to move, his strokes gathering power and intensity, his hips surging forward almost punishingly fast. Memnon’s magic slithers out of him again, brushing against my breasts and delving into my hair.

I can feel it shifting my long locks. My own power comes out then, lured by Memnon’s, our magic mingling into one.

He withdraws, pulling away just long enough for his magic to flip me onto my stomach. Before I can fully process this new position, he pulls back my hips and, with a single brutal thrust, spears into me again, causing me to gasp.

From this new angle, he unleashes himself, pumping his hips harder, faster, his cock continuing to stretch me.

Even in intimacy, there’s a new edge. Memnon is more powerful, more magical, and more merciless, and it’s as though he’s driving himself punishingly hard, all in search of that edge of sweetness that laced our previous touches.

He wraps my hair in his fist, pulling my head back.

“Beg me for your next orgasm,” he breathes against my ear.

I turn to him, my eyes catching on his scar. “No.”

His smile is downright malevolent. “I was hoping you’d fight me.”

Memnon releases my hair, my locks falling in a curtain around my face and shoulders.

He retreats to where we’re joined; only now, his magic pours out of him.

It snakes over my skin, curling around my breasts and between my thighs.

The touches against my nipples are featherlight, as though his magic is aware of how sensitive they are.

But the strokes at the sensitive nub of skin are merciless and, combined with Memnon’s deep thrusts, sensation rapidly climbs within me.

My hands dig into the blankets beneath us, and I twist them in my grip. My orgasm is right there, no more than a few breaths away.

All at once, however, Memnon stills inside me, and his magic falls away from my body.

“ Memnon ,” I practically weep.

His hand splays against my lower belly as he drapes himself over my back.

His lips brush against the shell of my ear. “Beg me.”

I bow my head, panting heavily, but I don’t speak. After a few moments, he begins to move again, and his magic resumes its maddening caresses.

Again, I climb. And again, when I’m on the precipice of my climax, sensation recedes like the tide.

I growl in frustration. “Damnit, Memnon.”

He laughs, his hand sliding lower down my abdomen, one long finger pressing against that sensitive fold of skin. “Beg.”

I hiss in a breath against that one touch, then grind my teeth together. Stubbornly, I refuse to say anything.

I feel, rather than see, Memnon’s grin, and I know my damnable husband is enjoying tormenting me. I take little comfort from the fact that this must be tormenting him as well.

Once more, he resumes driving himself into me, faster and faster. “Shall we do this all night?” he says. “I can get creative.”

The possibility of being relentlessly teased for hours sounds excruciating. Already, I’m ready to weep at the throb between my legs and the delicious ache deep within my core. I’m an inferno burning up from within. Hotter and hotter and?—

Memnon slows his movements.

I cry out with frustration. “Please, Memnon!” I finally force the words out.

His cock is still only teasing me, his strokes shallow. It’s not enough, not nearly. “Please what?” he says.

I swallow down the last of my pride. “Please get me to orgasm.”