Page 18 of The Entanglement of Rival Wizards (Magic and Romance #1)

Facing the building, and me, he shoves his hands into his pants pockets, tips his head back with his eyes shut, and lets the snowflakes pepper his face.

“I’m not going to apologize for mouthing off to her,” I say, establishing myself in this weird, amorphous pause.

I’m a step above where he’s on the walkway, and it puts me over him when he blinks his eyes open, snowflakes on his dark lashes.

I can feel kisses of cold on my cheeks and ears; I’m getting covered, too.

“I don’t expect you to,” he says.

“Well, good.”

“Good.”

I shiver and tuck my arms around myself and do not say good again. “Awesome.”

Elethior cracks a smile. It’s unsettling. He’s smiled more because of me tonight than in all our interactions combined, and not in his usual condescending way.

“Davyeras got on my case for not cooperating with you.” I exhale, and it displaces snowflakes on their path to the already coated steps.

“And while I could be pissed that they all expected some brilliant breakthrough after five days, I get it. We should’ve gotten over our bullshit and worked together.

So,” I straighten my spine, “if you’re sober enough to remember this conversation, I’m ready to get to work when we’re back in the lab next week.

If you won’t remember, well, I guess I’ll have to give this dazzling speech again Monday morning. ”

Elethior’s lips cock. “I’m not drunk.”

“Sure you’re not, Chuckles.”

“I had one glass. I’m not drunk. I—” He looks at the windows next to the door that show the blurry forms of the guests within. His voice gentles. “I’ve always wanted to speak to her like you did. Arasne’s an insufferable, pretentious drone.”

My eyes widen.

And then I’m the one losing it, laughing so hard my sides split.

Elethior watches me, one side of his mouth lifted in amusement, but it isn’t at my expense. And I laugh more until, yeah, I can believe he’s not drunk.

I take my glasses off, wiping my eyes and cleaning the smudges of snowflakes off the lenses, before I settle enough to catch Elethior’s questioning look.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve used those words to describe you,” I explain. “So to hear you say that about your own family is… really weird.”

He shrugs. “Well, that seems to be the theme of most situations that involve you.”

I hold his gaze, tongue working along my teeth. “If you’re not drunk, then what do you say? We don’t have to like each other. But we need to work together. Can you do that?”

He rolls his eyes. “I believe I was the one who originally tried to broach a truce, so yes, Sebastian. I can do that.”

“Well, your attempt at forging peace between our warring nations crumbled, so I get credit for it being a success now.”

Elethior’s face hardens. Ah, there it is, a flash of our old animosity. Nice to see it isn’t completely gone.

I grin triumphantly and hook my thumb over my shoulder. “Should we take this new united front back in and wow the Armani socks off those donors?”

The snow’s slowing down, but he’s still coated in flakes, tiny glittering specks of white.

He tips his head up to the sky one more time, and I recognize the gathering of strength, the frantic scramble to cling to resolve.

I’d be doing the same if I was able. But I don’t show vulnerability around anyone other than Orok. Just grit my teeth, make an inappropriate joke, and compartmentalize my breakdowns for later.

“I suppose,” he says, no small amount of reluctance in his voice.

My stomach sinks. I don’t know why I care.

“Or,” I say, “we could fuck off, and I can spell a ward over the door so everyone who leaves the party tonight after us gets hit with painful diarrhea.”

Elethior arches an are you serious eyebrow.

He climbs the stairs to stand at my side, taller than me again. Asshole.

“Don’t strain your abilities with such complicated magic,” he tells me with another of his haughty smirks. “You’ll need all your strength to keep up with me next week.”

My face falls. “Dick.”

He clutches his chest, walking backward up the rest of the stairs, leaving footprints in the snow. “ Ouch . All out of insults tonight already? My, you really won’t be able to keep up with me.”

“I—but with the—oh, just.” And I flip him off.

He barks a laugh and vanishes back inside, leaving me alone with the falling snow, wondering what the hell happened.

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

What is the world coming to.

I’m halfway home when I realize I’m not freaking out, and I should be.

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.

As I unlock the apartment door, I’m in desperate need of spewing this to Orok and figuring out why I feel so… okay with everything.

After Elethior and I returned to the party, the night went well. We mingled as a pair, fielding donor questions with vague reassurances that we’re excited to see what the semester brings. We fed off each other rather instinctively, volleying responses like we’d rehearsed them.

I should be livid with myself. But maybe all that worrying about losing this grant put my hatred into perspective. Maybe I will be able to tackle this project from a place of maturity.

I open the door and almost shout a perky honey, I’m home before I notice Orok sprawled on the couch, out cold in worn blue sweatpants.

He had rawball practice this afternoon, and I know he also had a shift with his call center job where he answers the non-emergency line for an adventure party—he doesn’t take the There’s a griffon rampaging Center City calls, more the I found a nest of pixies in my garden and they won’t stop hoarding all my jewelry calls.

His laptop and headset are perched on the cushion next to him, and he’s got a folder open on his bare chest and a few books and papers next to his feet on the coffee table.

I quietly unzip my coat, watching him twitch in his sleep.

And he worried about me pushing it too hard this first week.

There aren’t any food plates in the nest around him, so I throw up a quick silence spell around our kitchen and dig out some leftover drunken noodles from—I sniff them—four days ago?

Five? They’re probably fine. The noodles are little chewy even after I use a warming spell on them, but I carry two bowls to the couch along with bottles of water.

I watch him for a beat, but he doesn’t appear to be having a nightmare.

“Hey,” I say and kick his knee. “O. You—”

He jackknifes awake.

The folder flies off his chest, one arm winging up in a shield, the other bracing on the back of the couch.

“Orok!” I fumble the bowls and waters but manage to set them on the coffee table, then crouch until his eyes lock on me. “Orok—hey. You’re awake. You’re safe. It’s Seb, O.”

His shoulders heave, arm staying up as consciousness slides over him.

“Seb,” he says, eyes meeting mine.

“Yeah.” I force a smile, heart skittering and aching. “You’re good, okay? You’re safe.”

His arm drops as he does, slumping back against the couch, the heel of one hand digging into his forehead. “Did I—”

“Just scared the shit out of me. My fault, though. I should’ve let you sleep.”

“No.” He scrubs his face and pins me with a look as I rise up out of my crouch. “It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”

My eyes go involuntarily to his chest and the jagged white scar that sits along the seam of his left shoulder. Seeing it always pierces something deep inside me, my own scar to match his, but internal.

I can still hear the sound he made because of that wound. It wasn’t a scream, wasn’t a shout; something guttural beneath that, the shriek a person makes when they don’t have time to recognize they’re in pain.

Clarity brings my thoughts of Elethior into proper focus.

It doesn’t matter how weird tonight was; nothing’s changed, except for now, I’ll be able to do my project. Elethior’s still Elethior and I only trust that he also wants to work.

There’s no need to dig into the psychology of why tonight didn’t make me freak out.

“Want to talk about whatever dream you had?” I offer, even though I know the answer.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he says. “It was… emotions. It’s not like I have full Hollywood blockbuster nightmares set at Camp Merethyl.”

I hide my shudder by grabbing our dinner and shoving a bowl at him. “That’s a movie no one ever needs to make.”

He forks up a noodle and holds it toward me in a mock toast. It’s shaking. “Hear, hear.”

Mid-bite, he pushes away his laptop, headset, and the folder he launched off his chest so I can plop onto the couch next to him.

We eat in silence.

He’s still trembling, likely from cold as his sweat dries, but also from the crash after waking up like that.

I hate when he gets all mother hen on me though, so I bite down on my need to baby him and instead grab the folder he shoved aside.

“Weren’t you the one who told me not to work so—wait, the Hellhounds?” I reread the word spread across the front.

It isn’t a folder for a class; it’s a promo kit for the professional rawball team based in Philadelphia.

I flip it open, and it’s full of info about the team, stats, and history—along with the benefits and bonuses for players.

My eyes go huge and I gape at Orok. “What the—”

He shovels in the last of his food. “It’s nothing. They’re going to be scouting at a few games and sent those packets ahead. We all got one. It happens every year.”

I bend my knee on the couch so I can face him, but he isn’t looking at me.

“Did you get an offer to play pro rawball?” I ask straight-out.

He rests his bowl in his lap and lays his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “No.”

I set the folder on the coffee table. “Are you lying to me?”

Orok pops his eyes open. “No, Seb.”

“That’d be pretty sweet. The pro team, not lying.”

“I didn’t get scouted. It’s—” His eyes shut again. “It’s nothing, okay?”

No, it’s not. There’s tension vibrating off him and I can’t figure out why.

“It’s not nothing,” I say. “If you got scouted. If you—”

“But it’s not the plan.” It comes out as a whisper. Pained, almost.

My heart, already bruised to all hell by the way he woke up, squeezes. “Fuck the plan. Fuck your mom’s plan. You think she wouldn’t be happy about you playing pro rawball? That’s suitably tough and Urzoth-y .”

Eyes still shut, he reaches out, misses once, then grabs my knee. “Stop. It’s not that. It’s—a recruiter came by practice this week. Talked to me. But she talked to a few of us. That’s it, okay? It got in my head.”

I thread my fingers with his. “Why did it get in your head?”

He doesn’t respond right away. His hold tightens on my hand and he rolls his head to the side before looking at me. Something ripples across his face as his grip on my hand starts to hurt.

“It’s all ending,” he whispers, so low I almost don’t hear the way his voice cracks.

“What’s ending?”

He pulses his hand against mine.

My shoulders bow. “O. C’mon. If you haven’t been able to get rid of me this long, it’s not going to change when we’re done with school.

No matter what, you’re stuck with my handsome mug in your life.

” I give him a flat, wide, cheesy grin. “And you know I’m locked into Philly after graduation.

Clawstar’s HQ is here. Getting recruited to the Hellhounds is a good thing. ”

“You’re sure we shouldn’t enroll in the doctorate program and keep our heads in the sand a bit longer?” he asks, too serious for my liking.

We’d talked about this when we planned for grad school. Neither of us has need for a doctorate, and honestly, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need his master’s.

He’s only here to stay close to me.

“Do you want to go pro with rawball?” I ask gently.

“I want,” he starts, half mumbling, “to go back to sleep.”

Stubborn asshole. “If you fall asleep on the couch, I will levitate your big butt upstairs and hurl you into your bed.”

He grins but throws it into a pathetic whine. “No, Seb. Carry me.” He pokes my arm.

“Ow.” I rub the spot, and as I gather our dinner stuff and stand, he follows me up, scrubbing awareness into his face.

“Wait—your party,” he says. “How’d it go?”

I made peace with the guy whose family tortured us for four summers straight. “Fine. Weird. But fine.”

Orok grimaces, fighting a losing battle with staying awake on his feet. “That’s cryptic.”

I deposit the bowls and water bottles in the sink as nonchalantly as I can. “I gotta inject some sense of mystery into our relationship or you’ll get sick of me.”

He shoots me an amused look before plodding up to his bedroom with a warbling yawn. I follow, hitting the lights and activating our security wards.

By the time I’m upstairs, Orok’s face down across his comforter, bedside lamp on.

“I should make you brush your teeth.”

He scowls with his eyes shut. “Noooo, Mom; I’ll do it in the morning, I promise.”

I swat his head and click off his light. “Night, dumbass.”

He grabs my hand in the dark with the same constricting desperation as he did downstairs.

We’ve lived together for six years. Roomed together at Camp Merethyl before that. He’s been one bunk or door away for more than a quarter of my life, and maybe that’s why I’m not worried about things changing after we graduate. I can’t imagine any future where he’s not close.

He doesn’t say anything now, just keeps hold of my hand.

“You want some company?” I try. He doesn’t always.

Another stretch of silence. Then a grumbled “Yeah.”

“Give me a sec.”

It doesn’t take long to throw on sleep pants and a T-shirt and fumble through my night routine, then I’m back, tossing my glasses on his side table and crawling into the space Orok leaves me in his queen-size bed. He’s going to squash me by morning.

He flops onto his side, facing me, still above the covers where I huddle under them, and his hand seeks out mine on the sheet. “Thanks.”

Don’t thank me, I want to say. The same way he reassures me it isn’t my fault.

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

There’s no heat in it. We’ve made promises and threats like that before.

“She’d love that,” he mumbles. “She calls you my security blanket.”

My throat pinches, but I force out, “A blanket ? Hardly. A high-end cashmere sweater at least.”

“We are, though.” Orok yawns again. He’s fading fast. “To each other. Security.”

“Well. I mean, yeah.” I stiffen. “This is probably crossing a line then, right? One of the first things she’d tell us to stop. This, I mean.” I pat his bed, ribs contracting. “If this isn’t helping you, I should—”

I start to get up, but Orok grabs my shoulder and thumps me back onto the bed.

“Go to sleep,” he tells me.

The worry eases. A little. “Your therapist will be so disappointed in you.”

I can hear his smile when he slurs, “Shut your mouth, Seb.”