He saw the flicker of hurt, washed away by surprise. Oh, God. Was he sitting across from another burnt lover of Simon’s?

Brother. He could not say whether that was better or worse. Zechariah pursed his lips, then took a draw of his champagne. Opened his mouth, then filled it with more champagne instead of pouring out words.

“I thought I knew him, and I was wrong.”

He set the champagne glass down, harder than he intended. Then, he interlaced his fingers under his chin as he chose his words carefully.

“I do not fault my friends for using me, Elijah, so long as the intent is clear. I am useful. Most of us are, and I think it would be a damned waste to let our gifts languish out of fear of crossing some unstated line.”

His gaze slid to the champagne, then back to Elijah.

“I turn to you at the station because I trust you. I may not have any crimes against children to brush under the rug,” he added with an arched brow, “but neither do I foster relationships with the other constables that I might lighten the burden of what I ask of you.”

His gaze softened some, at that … before his brow set in lines once more.

“But even I balk at the way the Wards have used me. I can only imagine how they treat someone else who is … like family, to them. I saw the bruises.”