Roshani Chokshi

“You hid me in a minotaur? Why couldn’t Tristan make a hiding dimension in a handsome Greek god?”

“His affinity is for liquid matter. Stone is difficult for him,” said Séverin, pocketing the knife. “So it was either the minotaur or an Etruscan vase decorated with bull testicles.”

Enrique shuddered. “Honestly. Who looks at a vase covered in bull testicles and says, ‘You. I must have you.’?”

“The bored, the rich, and the enigmatic.”

Enrique sighed. “All my life aspirations.”

“Are you breathing?” whispered Enrique. “I’m definitely not.”

“Not helping,” growled Séverin.

Now he was up to his elbow. The bear was rigid. It didn’t even blink.

A party invitation sounded like a poor consolation prize for getting knocked unconscious, but this was different

“Oh … you’re still mad?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Would giving you a present make you less mad?”

Laila lifted her chin. “Depends on the present. But first, say it.”

Tristan shifted on his feet. “I am sorry.”

“For?”

“For putting Goliath on your dressing table.”

“Where does Goliath belong? And for that matter, where do all your pet insects and whatnot belong?”

Tristan looked wide-eyed. “Not in your room?”

“Close enough.”

For Aman, whom I would wear out iron shoes for, and for Niv, whose friendship is the rarest form of magic

Myths are but lies breathed through silver.

But oh, my love, you lied.

I have never understood this preoccupation with the rich and famous and how they spend their existence.

Some individuals are like portals, the knowing of them makes the world a far vaster place. In Indigo’s presence my world widened. Brightened.

“Reality is what you make of your surroundings. And the world outside my own cannot touch me.”