Free Bewitched & Betrayed by Lisa Shearin

My voice dropped to an intense whisper. “Mychael, please let me do this for you. Your knowledge, our magic. I don’t want you hurt because of me any more.”
    I didn’t wait for a response. I placed my hand on his neck, my palm flat against his pulse point. Our combined power surged out of me and into him, and now it was Mychael’s turn to gasp.
    I felt the burn beneath my hand—not just felt it; I became a part of it, flowing down through the layers of damaged skin and muscle, the touch of my hand absorbing the heat and pain, and sending cool, healing magic in its place.
    Mychael’s strength, my will. Our magic.
    But it didn’t stop there. The power that coursed through me into Mychael surged through him and slammed back into me. Hard. The flow of magic was like water released from a dam, barely controlled. It picked up speed as it went from me into Mychael and back again, a breath-stealing, stomach-clenching cyclone of power.
    As quickly as it caught us up in its current, the magic slowed, receded, then left us both in a cool rush. I kept my fingers clenched through his until the last tremors of magic between us faded. I didn’t think I could have let go even if I’d wanted to.
    I didn’t want to.
    Mychael’s hand dropped from mine and I fell back against the pillows. Mychael was leaning against the bed’s headboard. Both of us were breathing heavily, but I didn’t feel exhausted, not in the least. I was exhilarated.
    Mychael looked at me and laughed low in his throat. “I would ask if you’re all right, but it’s obvious that you are.”
    I was a little light-headed, but in a very good way. I glanced at his throat. The burn was gone. My eyes were drawn down to his chest. Smoothly sculpted and muscled—and no trace of the burns that had marred it minutes before.
    “The burn on your shoulder is gone,” Mychael noted.
    “We do good work,” I managed between pants.
    “You shouldn’t have risked that.”
    “I wanted to.”
    He hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. “Thank you.” “My pleasure.”
    His eyes gleamed. “I can tell.”
    There were two polite taps on the door.
    “That would be breakfast.” Mychael took a shuddering breath and blew it out, then he laughed, warm and deep. “Let’s see if my legs will hold me up long enough to get to the door.”
    Mychael rolled out of bed and padded barefoot to the door. From what I could see, his long, leanly muscled legs were holding him up just fine. He wasn’t naked, though with what little he was wearing, he may as well have been. Silken sleep pants were tied low on his hips, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
    He opened the door and accepted a tray from someone on the other side, and exchanged a few words, their murmurs too quiet for me to make out what they were saying. Mychael had brought me back from death, and if that coffee was as strong as it smelled, it’d bring me the rest of the way back to life and beyond. Though I didn’t know how it could possibly improve on how I felt right now. When my nose told me what was on that tray, my stomach growled in approval.
    Mychael stood over me, his eyes sparkling. “So you’ve worked up an appetite, too.”
    I flashed a grin. “I think I can put a respectable dint in whatever the kitchen sent up.” I sat up and the sheet fell down.
    Oh crap, my nipples were hard. It was the cold air, definitely the cold air, though Mychael wouldn’t believe that; he’d probably think that I . . . because he was . . . because we had . . . Dammit.
    I sighed and just left the sheet where it was. No use bothering now. “You wouldn’t happen to have something I could wear, would you?”
    Mychael winked and sat the tray down across my lap. “Got just the thing.” The silk sleep shirt he retrieved from the back of a chair was the match to the pants he was wearing. He held the tray while I put it on.
    I buttoned the shirt. “Perfect.”
    Mychael grinned crookedly. “Now you can eat, retain your