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

by Sara Raasch

Shit-stirring is my love language. I smile sweetly as I close the door.

The part of me that Orok’s always worried will take over bursts up out of my soul like a rabid dog, feral and snarling,

mn no wonder he's worried, it did take you over bro

“Stop blaming Seb,” Orok barks at his mother. My chin jerks back. I haven’t heard him use that tone with her ever. That’s his back the fuck up voice that he only has to break out when things get rowdy at parties.

I dig into my component belt and pull out a jaunty fedora.

gag

“He’s invisible,” he says, this time flat and declarative. I set Nick down. “Mad observation skills you have.” “Go fuck yourself, Walsh.” “I will, and I’ll think of you while I do it.” His face flares red. Bright red, two near perfect lines along his cheekbones.

Neither of us will leave until the other does, which adds another self-sabotaging layer to the already toxic work ethic we both seem to share.

Semester’s off to a bangin’ start, lemme tell ya.

Turns out Elethior absolutely has the power to get me punted off this project, he just hasn’t; and not only that, he flat-out refused the offer in front of me. Add on the fact that we—gag—bonded, and I have no idea why I’m not vibrating out of my skin.

Am I attracted to Elethior? Oh. Oh, fuck no.

He trails off and looks at me with a too-pleasant smile. “You started this. But I’ll finish it.” Heat creeps across my face. Not rage this time. Something … definitely not rage.

He played a prank on me. Elethior, king of maturity, played a prank on me.

This thing has hurtled so far over any boundaries that I’m not sure we’ll ever find our way back, and everything Nithroel and Martha implied tells me that accepting this would be … significant. Elethior and I are working together. That’s all. It isn’t significant. It won’t be. “Sure.”

For safety reasons, and because I’m a possessive fucking bastard.”

“The outcome of your meddling cannot be used to counteract the treachery of the meddling itself.” “Thank you, Orok,” he badly mimics my voice. “I got laid because of you, Orok. You’re the best wingman ever, Orok.”

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.

Fine. He wants time? He gets exactly—I do some quick math—twenty-two hours and seventeen minutes. After that, he’s mine, for the rest of our miserable lives, and he’s just going to have to deal with it.