Never Again Read Free Page B

the sludge, exerting his will. I belong to the Goddess. I call upon the blood of my ancestors, the righteousness of all good Dragons, to help me.
    You are the dark, cried the voices, you are one of us.
    Light burst through the blackness, and the voices screamed in frustration.
    A huge claw reached through golden brightness and grabbed Gray. He was slammed back into his body. The knife was expelled, the horrific wound closed, the chains shattered, and then he was lifted from the altar, and shoved up, up, up through fire, through rock, through earth, until he came to rest on soft, dewy grass.
    Gray took a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Above him, he saw leafy tree branches reaching up as if trying to tickle the full moon. A glance around confirmed he was in some sort of wooded clearing—which could be located in California or France or anywhere in between. He had no idea where he was, only that he was free.
    Within himself, he felt the slither of scales, the heat and shape of something foreign.
    He had escaped hell.
    But he had not come out alone.

Chapter 1
     
    Present day . . .
     
    “Marry me.”
    The man filling up the doorway in front of Lucinda Rackmore didn’t bat an eyelash. His expression didn’t change, either. His blue gaze was still parked between sorrow and cynicism.
    Gray Calhoun didn’t look like a wizard. His hair was too long; the shaggy tips brushed his shoulders and the front strands carelessly framed his face. He might’ve been considered handsome if his nose didn’t crook in the middle and if the planes of his face weren’t as sharp as blades. A faded scar on the left side of his face twirled from his temple down his neck, hiding beneath the collar of his T-shirt. The thin white lines formed intricate patterns. She knew he had not healed the disfigurement magically because he was a man who liked reminders.
    His tight black T-shirt showed off his muscled form and his faded jeans did the same. His feet were bare, the clean, square nails cut short. Unlike most of his kind, he didn’t display blatant symbols of his power. But she knew that somewhere underneath his T-shirt was the tattoo of the House of Dragons, and the mark that designated his rare status.
    “Please,” she said. “Gray.”
    She couldn’t stop the recrimination that echoed inside the plea. A muscle ticked in his jaw and pain flickered in his eyes. He’d heard the censure, wrapped in the poor clothes of beggary, and then passed his own judgment.
    “Good day to you.” He straightened his six-foot frame. He turned away, as so many had before him, and she knew he would close the door in her face. Though she didn’t deserve even his tiniest consideration, she couldn’t bear another rejection. If only I could rest . . . just for a moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she could take a full breath or what it was like to have a heartbeat unhindered by fear. Her feet throbbed from endless walking. And every day, every moment, she looked over her shoulder, waiting for the inevitable—because she would be found and she would be dragged back to New York.
    Bernard Franco was not a forgiving man.
    Gray hesitated, clutching the edge of the doorjamb and looking at her coldly.
    “You married my sister,” she whispered. Desolation tainted her voice.
    “I took vows with her because I loved her.” His twang was more pronounced. He had once called it “cowboy cadence,” the way Texans chewed on their words before letting them out of their mouths. Gray had been born and raised in eastern Texas. He knew something about disgrace, too, though he’d been a victim. She couldn’t claim innocence. She’d had nowhere else to go, so here she was, raw from her own wounds, and forlorn enough to ask for Gray’s help.
    “Let me explain. Please.”
    His gaze cut past her to the deserted street in front of his house. The yard was overgrown and weed-strewn, the sidewalk leading up to the house cracked and uneven. Not even the wide porch