Free Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore by Michele Bardsley

the dead.
    And the grief-stricken.
    He turned back, wound so tightly, he was afraid to speak, to move. He was scared. On top of everything else, at this moment, fear slashed at him like shards of ice.
    Goddess, she was beautiful. She was slim, nearly as tall as his own six-foot frame. She wore a pale pink nightdress that swirled at her ankles. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted lavender. She liked Easter egg colors, the soft palette of pinks, purples, yellows, greens. He’d noticed that about her, just as he’d noticed a million other things.
    Mordi’s auburn hair fell around her shoulders in thick waves. He blinked. He’d never seen her with her hair down like that. She always wore it in a French braid or neatly pinned up. Her gray gaze was on his face, her smile slight but welcoming. She seemed to emit peace and calm, and he suddenly felt angry. He wasn’t one of her wimp-assed clients. He hadn’t come here to be…consoled, to be treated like a fragile soul who’d lost his whole world.
    She seemed to recognize his anger. That she’d somehow pegged him so easily made him madder still. Confusion ribboned through his fury, through his anguish. He wasn’t special, not to her.
    He whipped around, feeling as if he were burning from the inside out. He needed to get away. He needed to get somewhere dark and quiet and alone—somewhere he could scream and weep and punch stuff.
    But even as his foot came down on the first step, Mordi glided across the porch and grasped his hand.
    Just like that, she’d trapped him. Her solace covered him like a fuzzy blanket, and he choked on the grief barbing his throat.
    She didn’t make him turn around again. No, she came around instead and faced him, her gray gaze luminous.
    “Don’t,” he managed in a hoarse voice. He couldn’t imagine what he was asking her not to do, but there was something in her eyes, something that flitted like aghost across her face. She wasn’t just some ghoul who ran the cemetery. She was its keeper. The watcher. The very bridge between the living and the dead. And still, he didn’t want her to treat him like all the others she’d helped.
    She kept her hand in his, then lifted her other hand to his face. Then she drew him down toward her and brushed her mouth over his.
    His heart stuttered, and his breathing hitched, and the fucking tears spilled.
    “I’m sorry about your uncle,” she said. She kissed each corner of his mouth, tasting the wet trails that bracketed his lips. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”
    “You can’t help me.” He tried to pull back, but she stayed him easily by looping his wrists with her fingers. “I don’t want you to…do this.” He sucked in an unsteady breath, trying to get back some of his dignity. “I don’t want a pity fuck.”
    “I don’t pity you,” she said. “What do you need, Trent? Do you need to get back on your bike and ride away? Or do you need to come inside with me?”
    “I need…” He looked at her then, really looked at her, and saw the tenderness, the patience. “I need you, Elizabeth.”
    She smiled. “All right.”
    He hesitated. “It’s not…You don’t…” How did he ask if this was something she did for others? He felt petty and mean for even thinking it, but he couldn’thelp it. The world was one big bastard to him right now. Trust wasn’t an easy thing for him on the best of days—with the best of people.
    “Only you,” she reassured him. She let him go then and walked to the screen door. She kept her gaze on his, waiting.
    Suddenly, being alone with his grief and his doubts didn’t seem the way to go. She was there, soft and warm and willing, and so he followed her inside.

Chapter 3
    The Grand Court in Washington, D.C.
    Chamber of the House of Dragons
    Cullen Deshane shuffled down the massive, elegantly appointed hall, eyes forward, head held high, and shoulders back. Wizards and witches ceased their conversations to stare at him; in the sudden, awkward silence