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

Most kids can’t consciously animate anything until after puberty.”
    “You once told me you weren’t a normal necro.”
    “None of my line is. My mother was the same, as was her mother.”
    “So Grams is your father’s mother?”
    “No. No one knows who my father was. Grams is actually a cousin, but she raised me, so…” She shrugged, letting the sentence hang. “That’s the way it works. The way it’s always worked. My line is cursed.”
    “How so?”
    She closed the album. “My mother wasn’t the only one who has gone insane. Every member of my female line goes crazy before thirty.”
    “Because you’re so powerful?”
    “We’re powerful because of the curse.”
    “You’re not using the word figuratively.”
    “No. The one who cursed us was an alchemist, the founder of our line.”
    James snorted. “How ironic. My curse is much the same. My ancestor wanted to be a hunter without peer—so he traded his brother’s soul.”
    She turned to stare up at him. “How?”
    “He visited an alchemist.”
    “God, I hate alchemists.”
    He frowned and looked away. Had she offended him in some way? Before she could ask, he continued.
    “Are you going to do as your grandmother asked?”
    She ran her finger along the top of the old album. The leather cover had worn away exposing the rough edge of the heavy cardboard.
    “Elysia?”
    The bond tightened and they both gasped. She clenched the edge of the album.
    “That’s really not supposed to happen,” she whispered.
    “Why not? The same thing happens when you say my name.”
    “But I bound you to me. You’re mine. When you say my name, it feels like…”
    “You’re mine?” he asked.
    “That’s disturbing.”
    “Yes, it is.” His gaze held hers, as if he searched for some truth.
    She didn’t know what to tell him. There was no way she could be bonded to him. He had no soul to bind her.
    “You cut yourself,” he said.
    She didn’t understand until he touched the back of her right wrist. She turned her hand over and saw the gash on her index finger. The edge of the photo album was sharper than she realized.
    “Do you need a bandage?” His voice was soft, but much too intense for the casual question.
    She looked up and met his gaze, suddenly aware of how close he sat. The musky scent of his cologne wasn’t one she could name, but she liked it. A lot. She remembered being aware of it in the car, last night right before he healed the cut on her arm. She had been a bit out of it, but she did remember kissing him, and liking that, too. She wanted to do it again—which was nine kinds of crazy.
    “No, I don’t need a bandage.” She tried to tell herself that this was wrong, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. After all, she was nothing more than a sacrificial lamb.
    She held up her finger, offering it to him.
    He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then leaned forward and ran his warm tongue over the pad of her finger.
    It stung, and she pulled in a breath through her teeth.
    He licked it again, never breaking eye contact. On the third pass, he pulled her finger into his mouth. He closed his eyes and growled, the sound deep in his throat and just audible.
    Goosebumps rose on her arms. Weird that the sound scared and excited her at the same time. Or maybe it was the warm wetness of his mouth and the brush of his tongue across her sensitive fingertip. She licked her own lips as she watched him, her heart beating faster.
    She had found him attractive from the beginning, even when she thought he was nothing more than a dead man. She had been so certain that her interest had been the first steps down the dark road to insanity. Now she knew him better. He wasn’t a lich, but he was still dead. Perhaps this was madness, but she no longer cared. He pulled her finger deeper into his mouth, and she groaned.
    He opened his eyes, the green on full glow. Fascinated, she pulled her finger from between his lips, then rose up on her knees to taste his