The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance, #1)

by Sara Raasch

Impulsive? Me? How dare you.

“Fuck you very much, I am not high maintenance.”

“Aw, babe, your approval means everything.”

But what’s that saying? When mortals laugh, gods make plans? Or maybe it’s the other way around, but I must’ve laughed way too much last night playing drunken Blast Off with Orok and Crescentia, because holy shit, am I getting fucked by a god’s plans now.

What if all I am, all I’ll ever be, is an irresponsible, immature fuckup who can’t cope with anything in a normal way?

I’m locked down now. He threw that lock, he melted the key. I’m a vault, baby, and he’s getting nothing from me but what I choose to give.

I guess Elethior and I are … not friends now, gods forbid. But … partners?

I settle into his pillow. “Tomorrow’s the day: we’re officially going to have your therapist help us work through our codependency issues.”

And before you prattle on with what I’m sure will be a commendable speech displaying the versatility of the word fuck,

I bump into him. That solid chest and the smell of green plants and flowers. Those stupid lip rings— They’re warm. They’re warm because they’re pressed to his mouth, and his mouth is warm; and I know that because I’m kissing him. I’m kissing him.

There’s something wrong with me. Which is not a new revelation.

There, that’s what I want; destroy me with a look, take me apart piece by piece, leave nothing behind.

“Baby boy, you keep standing there, I’m going to pull you onto my lap.”

This isn’t just messy. It’s a full-on environmental disaster. Geiger counters will pick up radiation here a century from now.

We can change the rules? The rules can change.

Players and fans alike do not appreciate it when “Feel the sting” is followed up with “of going raw.” Ask me how I know.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve stopped believing there’s a way to get this out of my system at all. I’m pretty sure you are my system now.”

But the siren song—siren scent? Siren scent-song—of the pasta is screaming at me.

That’s what I’ve done since those summers. I can’t erase the trauma; I find what makes it endurable. I learn to live around it.

“You make me happy.”

If all this joy has me holding Thio tighter at night, it’s only because that’s what you do when you like someone. You hold them close. And wait for the dread to let you take a full breath again.

And there’s that dread again. The bruising throb of This can’t last. This is too good. You’re too broken to handle this. We’re both broken, though. And our jagged pieces don’t exactly fit together, but we know how to move around the sharpest points of each other’s, how to adjust and make space so no one bleeds.

What good is living in a world with magic if I can’t use it to make him happy?

“Oh my gods. I’m in love with him.”

After that, he’s mine, for the rest of our miserable lives, and he’s just going to have to deal with it.

I’m in love with Thio.

And your Mr. Tourael?” Gods, I like that, my Mr. Tourael.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,”

Nuh-uh. Paris? First of all, we can’t afford that; second, over my dead body is he going to propose like I’m the prize in this relationship. He’s the prize. He’s the whole damn jackpot, and I’m going to get down on one knee and proclaim how much I love this man and put my ring on his finger.

For now, I have a boyfriend to turn into a fiancé.

I want to be engaged to Thio. I want to be married to him. I want our forever, and I want it to start now.