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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Sara Raasch
Started reading
August 31, 2025
Lock up your kids, Sebastian Walsh might come along and tempt them to fall upon the sacrificial altar of student debt.
What’s the point of magic if you don’t get to use it for silly shit anyway.
“Though thief is the incorrect word,” he carries on like I didn’t speak. “What’s the name for a person who breaks in and leaves something?” My grin widens, more a baring of teeth than a smile. “Santa Claus.”
“Awfully hypocritical of you to come over here and lob baseless accusations when your family has been proven guilty of more than a few heinous crimes.” Oh. Maybe we should hook up after this.
“We should let them in before she chops down the door,” I say, defeated. “My mom hasn’t used her strength like that in years.” “I wasn’t talking about your mom.”
“Go fuck yourself, Walsh.” “I will, and I’ll think of you while I do it.”
Orok stretches his arms out for a hug. He’s blocking the hall, and he knows it. “I’m being held hostage.” “Yes. Hug me, dumbass.”
“What if I want to talk about it,” he repeats, “because I can’t stop thinking about it?”
Kissing Elethior Tourael should be as catastrophic as the worst thing I’ve done. And it is. But it’s not a bad catastrophe, and I never knew, never fucking knew that calamities could be wondrous, too.
“Another of mine is that I don’t share. Even if this is only physical, I won’t be fooling around with anyone else. And I don’t want you to either. For safety reasons, and because I’m a possessive fucking bastard.”
“I’ll help you forget, I promise. I’ll fuck you so good you won’t remember your own name beyond me calling you baby. But I can do that and still respect you, so look into my eyes and tell me you want my mouth on your cock.”
“I will lodge a shrieking rock up your ass.”
Another rock shuts up. It sounds like there’s only one more “YOU ARE DEAD TO ME” along with Chappell Roan telling Orok to raise his hands and body roll.
“Baby boy, you keep standing there, I’m going to pull you onto my lap.”
“I—” Do not say sex, do not say sex. “We—” Thio glances at me, and my thoughts must be clear on my face, because his eyes bug out. “We—” he starts, then his mouth hangs open, and I swear I can see the same words rolling through his head: Do not say sex.
I asked Thio once, and he shook his head and cooed at Nick how his daddy is cute when he worries. I’m not worried. Or cute. Fuck him.
“Please,” I relent, tugging at his arms, his neck. “Please, Thio, fuck me. Fuck me, own me, ruin me—” He kisses me to silence. Eats the last few garbled words. “Oh, I’ll ruin you,” he tells me. “But you’re mine, so I’ll always put you back together again, too.”
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.
She adores Thio, especially since he switched careers and they’ve bonded over the highs and lows of nursing.
He starts to sink to one knee— When he bursts up with a squawk. Thio whirls around, rubbing his ankle, frowning at the picnic blanket. “What the—?”
GET HIM NICK
