Free The Necromancer's Betrayal (The Final Formula Series, Book 2.5) by Becca Andre

why you ran away from the necro world?”
    “I didn’t run away.” She spoke the words with heat, then seemed to collect herself. She ran a hand along the faded curtain. “I wanted a… normal life.”
    “You mean a mundane life.”
    “I guess.” She continued to toy with the curtain. “What must it be like to just live? To not worry about your magic driving you mad?”
    He stopped behind her. “I don’t know. You lost me on the part where you just live .”
    She bowed her head. “Sorry.”
    They stood in silence for a few minutes. “Do you love the guy?” James asked.
    She snorted. “Does it matter?”
    “I think it should.”
    She turned to face him. “And you feel it’s your place to advise me? I assume you’ve never been in a relationship where you weren’t head-over-heels in love with the other person.”
    He didn’t answer.
    “Well?”
    “I’m dead.”’
    “Yes, and…?”
    The old anger rose up. “And how the hell is that supposed to work?”
    She frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you. Because you’re dead you can’t love?”
    He turned away. He hadn’t meant to go there, but he couldn’t take the words back now. “Never mind. Just drop it.”
    Her hand came to rest on his back. “It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you won’t.”
    “It’s not important.” He turned to face her, determined to get the conversation back on track. “We were talking about you… and Doug. If you’ve put yourself in this situation because of me—”
    “I told you, that’s not it. This is something I have to do. Don’t make it harder on me.”
    James sighed. “I think he’s right. You put too much stock in this curse. It hasn’t struck you down, yet you’re living like it has.”
    “You’re allowed to be cursed.”
    “I think our situations are a little different.”
    “I don’t see how.”
    James called the hound as close as he dared, then held up a hand, displaying the ebony claws sprouting from his fingertips. “I am cursed, you may or may not be. Yet you let it rule you.”
    “And you don’t, Mr. I-Can’t-Love?”
    “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
    “No. I think you’re selling yourself short.”
    He caught her wrist, noting the soft intake of breath as his claws lightly brushed her skin, and pressed her palm to his chest. “How am I supposed to explain this? Look, love, no heartbeat. I won’t age; I won’t die, because I’m already dead. Yes, that’s right, you’re in love with a corpse. That’ll be a hell of a thing to dump on someone.”
    He expected an outburst, or an impassioned rant about how it wouldn’t be like that—an argument Era often made. Instead, she took a step toward him and pressed her forehead to his cheek.
    “Couple of screwed up individuals,” she whispered, repeating her words from earlier.
    Her reaction silenced him. She agreed: expecting a woman to accept what he was was foolish. No one had ever agreed with him on this point. They always wanted to sugarcoat it, argue that the right woman wouldn’t care that he was dead. He expected to feel relief, instead her agreement… hurt.
    She lifted her head, but didn’t speak. A pause, then she looked down at where he still held her hand against his chest. He started to release her when her other hand settled on top of his. She lightly traced the knuckle of his index finger, sliding her finger down to the clawed tip.
    “Careful,” he said. “You’ll cut yourself.”
    She stopped, her finger resting against his cuticle, and lifted her eyes to his. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and lifted his hand. Then shocked him by bringing his hand to her lips, planting a kiss on an ebony cuticle. “Will you heal me if I do?”
    “Yes.”
    She didn’t look away, and her eyes faded to white as she sank more of herself into him. She took a step closer, and the hand over his heart slid down to his stomach. Opening her mouth, she wrapped it around his finger, letting the claw rest