Worse, when Selene braves the jungle and discovers the source of the attack, she finds herself awakening an ancient evil, Memnon the Cursed, who mistakes Selene for his long-dead wife. The wife who betrayed him. Selene manages to escape and begin her studies at Henbane, but when Memnon turns up at the coven and witches are found dead across campus, Selene becomes entangled in a dangerous plot. Accused of the murders on the basis of her memory loss, Selene must rely on Memnon's help for answers―and his plans for her will change everything.
Resting inside the sarcophagus is a man—a stunning, flawless man. His eyes are closed and his chest is still, and yet his olive skin has a ruddy, sun-kissed appearance as though he were out in the sun merely hours ago instead of Goddess knows when.
At the sight of him, I feel my magic gather over my heart. The sensation is sharp, and it takes my breath away even as my cheeks flush and my heart races.
The voices begin to murmur again.
Release him …
My pulse is picking up and my breath is coming faster and faster. I’d like to say it’s fear I feel, but the truth is that whatever force drove me here now craves to touch this man. Memnon the Cursed.
Wake him …
I stare at his thick, dark lashes and his high cheekbones. My gaze moves to his nose, which is ever so subtly hooked. His coarse brown 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 towards his ear before sharply plunging down towards the edge of his jaw. It screams violence—as does the dagger near his hip and the tarnished scale armor he wears.
Memnon seems like he was a badass.
My gaze returns to his face. I’m filled with the strangest sort of longing, like my heart is shattering and reforming, and I feel the most unnerving tug on my chest.
Touch him … free him … Rouse him from his deathless sleep …
After a moment’s hesitation, I tentatively reach out and press my fingertip to the edge of that scar, near his eye.
I nearly pull my hand back when the skin gives beneath my fingers. It has the icy chill of death clinging to it, but it’s—it’s supple the way living skin is.
Help him … only you … only you …
Slowly I trace the scar, following the line of it to his ear, then down, down to the edge of his jaw. My hand brushes against his hair, and there is an ache in me so deep. So, so deep.
Free me … little witch … please …
The whispers have coalesced back into that single male voice, the same one that called me here.
How long I have waited … for you … only you …
I place my hand against the man’s cheek, ignoring the growing warmth I feel beneath my palm and that little voice inside me screaming at me to run from this place.
Instead, I draw in a sharp inhale, then breathe out a single command. “Obut’iweyk.”