Page 17 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

I don’t want to meet his cousin. Don’t want to play nice with another Tourael.

I’d have happily ignored her if Elethior hadn’t made a point to tell me not to intervene, but I’m tangled up in both my desire to do the opposite of whatever he wants me to do and the deep-seated revulsion at the idea of being near his family.

The group around his cousin is watching us now. We’re only two yards away, separated by a few people who come up to the bar.

Elethior’s eyes stay on mine in silence, and I can practically see the thoughts taking shape in his head, warring with how he can get out of this, but what reason do either of us have to refuse?

His jaw flexes. “Of course,” he calls back to his cousin.

He starts to grab my arm again, thinks better of it, and recoils, flexing his fingers. When he turns toward the woman, I find my voice again.

“Wait. I—I do need to talk to you about this whole… thing .” I wave between us.

I need another second of not being over there. A second to unclench my fists and center myself and other calming shit Orok preached at me before I left the apartment.

Maybe it’ll kick in.

Anytime now.

I note the color staining Elethior’s cheeks. Damn, how tipsy is he?

“There is no thing, ” he snaps. “Remember? We’re presenting individual projects.”

“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “About that. I’ve had a change of heart—”

“ Elethior .” His cousin has one eyebrow lifted, a finger tapping on the bar.

“Behave yourself.” Elethior leans in, smelling of that rich wine he had. “I’m serious. Pretend you have at least basic people skills.”

“Fuck off,” I hiss back at him, but I paste on a smile as we move down the bar.

His cousin’s group peels away at some unspoken command, so we have her full attention.

Up close, she’s older than Elethior, half elven like he is, with shorter pointed ears than a full elf would have.

She’s definitely related, though, with the same dark eyes, but her hair is so bright it almost hurts to look at.

Her sleek scarlet dress is as expertly crafted as Elethior’s suit, her ears, neck, and fingers set with glitzy jewels.

Money, money, blah blah blah; I should text Crescentia to get her protestors over here.

I hold out my hand. “Sebastian Walsh. I’m sure Elethior’s told you all about me.”

She smiles amicably. “Arasne Tourael. And no, he hasn’t.”

I’m momentarily struck when I realize I don’t know where she fits in the Tourael family tree. What branch is she a part of? Weapons manufacturing? Military?

A thought settles like a stone in my gut.

Is she a part of Camp Merethyl? I don’t recognize her. Gods, my dad would love that—if Elethior has direct connections to that camp and my making good with him could smooth over the ripples I caused in dropping out.

My dad being happy annoys me, so I cling to that emotion. Annoyance. Frustration. Anger . There’s nothing else churning beneath my surface, nothing else trying to drown me.

“You’re a donor?” I ask, purposefully fishing.

“I am,” she says through that expert amicable smile. “I also keep an eye out for up-and-coming young wizards who might find a home in any of our research and development properties.”

I choke down relief. The Tourael family is massive; they all deal with magic defense, but they don’t all have their hands in Camp Merethyl. Many of them do totally innocent things, like design weapons and fund dangerous spell research.

Arasne lets a pause linger, clearly expecting me to fawn over her, which is likely the usual reaction upon learning she has hiring power at high-paying jobs.

I give a one-shouldered shrug. “Neat-o. I’ve got a job lined up with the Clawstar Foundation.”

She tenses, presumably at the mention of a nonprofit in direct opposition with what she’s recruiting for. But she recovers and says, “Congratulations,” with no inflection.

Elethior flags the bartender. Another glass of red wine is put in front of him and he grabs it.

“You drinking that Do Men de la Something-Candy?” I ask.

He and Arasne both gawk at me.

“Pardon?” she questions.

I smile innocently. “Some fancy wine Elethior was going on about.”

He sets the glass on the bar and pinches his nose. “Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”

“ That’s how that last word is pronounced?” I paste on fake shock. “Do Men Dally with Roman what ? Sounds like—” I make a circle with one hand and stick my finger through it repeatedly. “But whaddya expect of the Romans, ya know?”

Unveiled revulsion flashes across Arasne’s face as she realizes what an imbecile her cousin is working with.

My smile is set in iron. Utterly unbreakable. Yeah, lady, I am that dumb.

“It’s—no. It’s not that.” But Elethior doesn’t pick up his glass again.

I think, I think, he’s trying not to laugh.

Of all the reactions he’s had to my antics, he’s never laughed. Not even at me, and that’s not what this feels like.

It’s as if… he’s in on it with me.

I’m not sure I like it.

Arasne regains her composure. “Elethior has been tight-lipped about how the project is going. Perhaps you can enlighten me as to why he has nothing to show for his first week?”

Elethior’s humor dies and he looks pleadingly at her.

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

“He has plenty to show for his first week,” I say to Arasne. “We both do. I’ll admit, it’s slow getting used to conjuration after coming from evocation, and vice versa with Elethior. But we’re making great progress, and we have a solid foundation to get into deeper research in the coming months.”

Elethior and Arasne gawk at me again.

Elethior in surprise.

Arasne in distrust.

Her eyes go to slits, lingering on my tie.

“ Great progress, ” she parrots. To Elethior, “How much progress should we expect from you, truthfully? If you are being forced to work with someone who will never amount to anything beyond magical tech support.”

My jaw drops. Oh, nice . We’re taking off the gloves, are we?

But as I open my mouth, inhibitions fully shucked, Arasne rounds on Elethior like I’m not here. To her, I might not be; she’s decided I’m insignificant. Good.

“You know the family’s expectations,” she hisses.

The family. Like they’re the mafia.

“It’s bad enough you were unable to secure the grant for just you, ” Arasne continues, “but you come to this cocktail party empty-handed and unprepared. This is not the behavior we expect, Elethior. This is not up to our standards.”

Elethior stands there and takes her verbal assault, his eyes pinned over her shoulder.

Pieces shift around in my brain, lock together, and I’m not liking the picture they form.

“And now him .” Arasne turns up her nose at me, and I bat my eyelashes. “This is the visage your partner presents? Perhaps I should have a conversation with the grant committee. If they insist on combining two projects, we can find a more suitable partner for you.”

My pretense shatters. The idiotic blankness. The disdainful smugness. In its place comes the marching step of the anger that’s been my biggest crutch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her.

Arasne’s eyes darken. My focus drops to her hands, but one is holding a glass of white wine while the other is unmoving at her side. No magic, no spells. She’s just regular ol’ mad.

“That’s not up to you,” she shoots back.

“Like hell it’s not,” I say. “I’m not going to roll over and step aside because the family wills it. I can’t be bought and I won’t vanish easily, and you can bet your ass that I’ll escalate any fight you bring my way.”

“You prove my point.” Her scowl flicks back to Elethior, who’s gone pale. “If this is what you’ve been forced to work with, no wonder you haven’t accomplished anything. I’ll speak to—”

“No,” Elethior says.

I blink at him.

“No,” he says again to Arasne. “I don’t need your involvement. I have it handled.”

Arasne’s anger vanishes. She’s suddenly compassionate, saccharinely so, one hand cupping Elethior’s shoulder. “You’re making things unnecessarily difficult. We have an image to maintain, and I’d hate to think what would happen if that image were sullied.”

There’s weight behind those words. Elethior looks sick, but his jaw firms.

“I have it under control,” he says. “I promise.”

Arasne sighs in a way that tells me they’ve had similar conversations before. “I’ll expect a better report at our next meeting.”

She flounces off, a potent or else vibrating in her wake.

Elethior lets out a slow exhale, his eyes on the space where she’d been standing.

The very last thing I ever want to feel for him is pity. Or worse: empathy.

“So,” I start. “She’s a real treat.”

His eyes flick to mine.

And he laughs.

Well, more like sputters, a strangled snort that gets stuck in his nose.

My brows bend. “How much wine have you had?”

What was a mottled snort is now a full-on chortle and he mumbles, “You made a sex gesture at my cousin,” before he cracks up all over again.

A few people are looking over at us now. More donors we have to mingle with, more committee members we have to impress. And my esteemed lab partner is having a wine-fueled breakdown by the bar.

I put my arm around his shoulders. “Okay, buddy, let’s get some air, yeah?”

Elethior keeps one hand over his mouth but nods.

I weave us through the crowd, avoiding eye contact with everyone we pass so we don’t get pulled into any more sure-to-be-disastrous conversations, and we make it into the foyer unscathed.

The windows on the heavy front doors show that it’s lightly snowing now, and I wrestle my jacket off the coatrack.

Elethior doesn’t; he’s in just his suit as he shoves open the door and jogs down the steps.

I follow, only realizing once I come to a stop on the bottom stair that I could’ve not followed him, I could’ve stayed in the warmth of the foyer and let him recover on his own.