Bewitched (Bewitched, #1)

by Laura Thalassa

The words should be off-putting, but I’m too bewitched by the voice to turn back now.

Resting within it is a man—a stunning, flawless man. This is no mummy—this isn’t even a fresh corpse. His chest isn’t rising or falling, but his olive-toned skin has a ruddy, sun-kissed appearance. It’s almost as though he were out in the sun hours ago and merely came in here to rest. And yet, if it were that simple, he would have woken up by now. Even asleep, this stranger is the most mesmerizing person I’ve ever seen. I stare at his sharp high cheekbones, then his subtly hooked nose. His coarse black hair curls around his ears, and his lips…I can already tell those full, curving lips were made for wetting panties and ruining girls’ hearts. A wicked scar cuts from the corner of his left eye toward his ear before sharply plunging down to the edge of his jaw. Memnon seems like a badass. A hot, violent badass.

His irises are a beautiful brown color—dark along the outside edge and light like bourbon on the inside. His pupils dilate as they take me in.

He gives me an odd look now. “What is this game you’re playing?” “Why would I ever play a game with you? I don’t even know who you are!” “You don’t know who I am?” His eyebrows lift in disbelief. Then he laughs, the sound chilling. “I have been inside you more times than there are stars to count. I am no more a stranger to you than your own skin is.”

“The world will know my wrath—you will know my wrath, my queen. “I will put you at my mercy,” he vows. “And I will destroy your world bit by bit until all you have left is me.”

“Say you are mine,” Memnon demands. Memnon? “I am yours,” I reply dazedly. My surroundings and my awareness sharpen. I take in the flickering lamplight, the soft sheets, the naked sorcerer moving down my body, his back tattoos rippling as he goes. “I lay claim to you before all the gods,” he says.

“You are the only goddess I pray to,” Memnon murmurs, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. “You’re a fucking vengeful one too.”

Memnon, voice rough from desire, says, “Let me show you how I pray to you, my wrathful goddess.” With that, he leans forward, and he…prays.

“Let me see your face,” he demands. I turn to look at him. “Why?” His eyes gaze at me intensely. “Because you are the only thing worth looking at, and my eyes have missed you.”

“Little witch,” he says against my lips, “you cannot look at me like that and expect me to keep my mouth to myself.”

He places a hand on my cheek. “Do I terrify you, little witch?” “Yes,” I say without hesitation. “And how fearsome would my equal have to be?” he asks. I shake my head, not sure how to answer. “They’d have to be very powerful and frightening to be your equal,” I finally say. Memnon strokes my skin with his thumb. “I’m staring at her now.” “I’m not—” “You are,” he insists. I part my mouth to protest further, but he says, “I know you are afraid, but you are underestimating your own strength, est amage. I have seen that strength many times, and you saw it yourself last night, when you were one against many. You are the frightening thing.” He pulls me in closer. “But you can always draw on my power if it pleases you. As I said, I like being in you.”

I’m still wearing a bra, and his fingers glide over one of the straps. A lock of dark hair slips over his eye as he studies the undergarment, grazing his thumb over the lace cup. I realize then that the sorcerer may have never seen a bra before. I don’t know what they wore during Memnon’s time, but it probably wasn’t this. I sit up, forcing the sorcerer back to his knees. Then I take his hand. “You undo it from the back.” I guide his arm behind me to where my bra hooks together. Memnon watches my face the entire time, more fascinated with my features than he is with the workings of my lingerie. Still, his hand closes on the clasp. “This feels like something I would greatly enjoy breaking, Selene,” he admits.

“I hate you,” I whisper. I really do. A muscle in his jaw jumps, but his eyes look confident, certain. “Only because you cannot remember that you once loved me,” he says.

His eyes settle on me. “I love you, little witch,” he says, his expression a touch sad. “More than all the world. That is my deepest truth, and it’s one I should have told you again and again as I once did. “And I’m sorry you have to bear the weight of that love.” His features shift a little, growing determined. “But you will bear it.”

Memnon’s own eyes drink me in. “You have never needed magic, est amage,” he murmurs, his roughened voice drawing out goose bumps on my arms. “You are entirely bewitching even without it.”