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

by Sara Raasch

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.

“Plus, apparently the only stories he tells are brutal recountings of raids on Danish villages that get a little racist. No one wants to work with him.”

And my coffee order, which was supposed to have an extra shot of charisma—yeah, okay, those potions are generally sugar syrup, but I’ll take whatever placebo effect I can get—had

I swing back and forth in my desk chair, staring at my laptop, trying to decide how professional it would be to send back an email saying, But I don’t WANNAAAAAA.

“No. It’s not a childish concern.” “Thank you.” “But—” “Fuck you.”

I have nothing left to give this conversation, hitting the bottom of my tolerance for speaking and not being heard.

“You don’t have to be a priest. You don’t have to do anything that doesn’t work for you. If that makes me a bad influence on you, then hell yeah, I’ll keep leading you to the dark side. I want you to be happy.”

“Go fuck yourself, Walsh.” “I will, and I’ll think of you while I do it.”

First giggle!

Elethior grunts. “I … might have overreacted. I can undo the spell. As an”—Gods, I can hear his shudder—“apology.”

I flip to a new page of notes that swims in front of my eyes, but when Elethior stops next to my desk, I am deeply focused on reading.

I don’t understand Orok’s adherence to religion for many reasons, but especially in moments like this. How does he cast spells, then think he needs a god to give him strength?

Second new release in a row to take a jab at religion. Hope it's a turning point.

The bartender approaches me. “What’ll you have?” I collapse on my elbows. “Literally anything with gin.”

“Here you go, handsome,” the bartender says, sliding a drink to me. I take it; it’s less liquid courage, more liquid lidocaine at this point. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

My hackles go up. They were already up. They go up higher. I’m wearing an Elizabethan neck ruff of hackles.

All he asks is, “How did you do this?” I don’t have to answer him. We have a professional truce; I owe him nothing else. I clench one hand and cross behind him to deposit my bag on my desk. “Genetics. I wake up looking this good.”

“I told you.” I sit on the edge of my desk. “He likes being invisible. An ex-girlfriend got pissed at me and cursed him, but joke’s on her, because he was thrilled.

“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’m not desperate for you.” He grins. “So I could leave now, no harm done?” My hands scramble at him; I’m pretty sure I scratch him trying to hold him here. Not that I think he’ll leave, but I am desperate, and his smile goes triumphant.

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

Fuck, baby, yes, and I want nothing more than to be sure I’m the only one who hears it. It’s mine, and I get where his possessiveness comes from.

“I need to get this out of my system before you drive us anywhere,” I whisper against his skin. He shivers, hands going down to grab my ass. “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.”