Chapter Two

Ryder

R yder leaned against a pile of mattresses and watched Tristan work his magic. Literally. Swirling yellow tattoos lit up on Tristan’s outstretched arms, and a faint yellow glow kindled in his irises.

The studio began to transform.

Three beds were already set up in a row, and more would be switched out after they’d used those, but that wasn’t nearly enough for the MateHub writers. Their artistic vision demanded more.

Even though Ryder sensed what Tristan was doing, his eyes refused to focus as reality blurred and the walls seemed to shimmer and melt away. The space before them appeared to open up, stretching out endlessly in a strange parody of a mattress showroom.

Beds popped up one by one in the illusion. Dozens of them, hundreds of them. They came in all shapes and sizes, from singles to kings, from dorm-room bunks to Japanese-style futon mattresses that lay on the floor. Some were fit for royalty, with large canopies arching over them; others were rickety frames that might be found discarded on the side of a road. Soft ambient lighting flooded the place, while bright spotlights showcased the latest models.

Ryder clapped as Tristan lowered his hands. No one cast illusions quite like him. Ryder couldn’t do them for shit, but Tristan’s never failed to impress. He was easily the best mage Ryder had ever met when it came to glamours. Other mages aside, very few people would understand the skill that went into his spells. It was insanely difficult to create a believable illusion. Too often, it fell into the uncanny valley—something not right about it that caused a person’s brain to reject what they were seeing.

But this? This looked real. Ryder could imagine someone walking straight into the now-invisible walls if they weren’t aware magic had concealed them.

Tristan surveyed his handiwork, nodding to himself.

“Nice,” Ryder said.

“How much do you want to bet the viewers won’t even notice?”

“A coffee from the break room?”

“Glad my work’s appreciated.” Tristan’s dry tone carried a hint of amusement.

“Hey, if you’re wanting some appreciation, I’m sure they’d let you?—”

“Never gonna happen. I’m good on my side of the camera, thanks. I’ll leave the moaning about getting pretend-knotted to you.”

“Oh, but it’s so big and hot and pulsing .” Ryder writhed with each word, his back arching, his gaze half-lidded. “And it’s filling me so full and?—”

“Save it for the cameras. I still can’t believe you want anything to do with wolf shifters. Most of them are obnoxious bastards.”

“Yeah, man, why would anyone get involved with a wolf shifter?” He snaked his hand out and wrapped it around Tristan’s wrist.

Shadows flickered through his mind—electric sparks that brought bits and pieces of the future with them. Yellow tattoos unfurling over a muscular chest, the whir of an espresso machine, the soft brush of fur against his skin .

Yep. It was still there.

Tristan yanked his arm away and scowled at him. “Stop that. Don’t even. I don’t want to hear it.”

Ryder laughed. “You aren’t curious about?—”

“Nope. Not interested. And if you’re tempted to tell me against my express wishes, let me remind you I know a spell that will make you feel like your asshole is itchy.” He gave Ryder a vicious smile. “For the rest of your life.”

Ryder had no doubt that he did.

“It wouldn’t matter if I told you. It’s not destiny, just a possibility. Fate doesn’t exist. You always have a choice. Maybe the universe gives you a nudge, but you make the final decision.”

“And if you make the wrong one, I can predict the future too,” Tristan said with a deadly sort of cheerfulness. “Ten years from now. It’s a pleasant day. You’re walking down the street… and your asshole itches like crazy.”

While the future wasn’t certain, Tristan’s wrath was, and Ryder would rather not risk it, especially with how crap he was at breaking curses.

“But seriously. Most of MateHub’s top stars are wolf shifters. That’s where the money is. If I refused to do scenes with them, I’d barely have any work. Besides, they’re hot. Just because mages and shifters generally don’t get along, doesn’t mean I can’t let a few fuck me.”

Tristan’s gaze tracked movement behind Ryder’s back, and Ryder turned to see Storm Swell entering the studio with a smooth, predatory grace. His jeans and t-shirt fit his tall frame tight enough to hint at all the muscle beneath.

Obnoxious bastards or not, wolf shifters were ridiculously attractive, and Storm was no exception, from his strong jaw and high cheekbones to his broad shoulders and spectacular ass. His black hair was closely shaved, and the deep, rich umber of his skin glowed under the studio lights, accentuating his striking features.

Storm must have felt them watching him because he glanced over, his wolf flashing in his dark eyes. He nodded, then strolled toward his dressing room.

Ryder suppressed a shiver of arousal. Yeah, letting someone who looked like that fuck him was not exactly the hardship Tristan made it out to be.

“Well, I better go get myself prepared for this supremely absurd scene.”

“Enjoy that pretend knot,” Tristan said wryly, his attention returning to his illusion as he tweaked a few of the beds.

“Always do.”

Ryder headed to his own dressing room. Because obviously, the naive character he’d be playing—a straight guy who’d shown up without realizing what his new employer was expecting—would also arrive perfectly cleaned out and waxed for porn close-ups. They truly did strive for realism at MateHub, and no one could say otherwise. Not even in his last scene, when he, an avid sex doll collector, had enchanted his toys to come to life and gang-bang him. If that wasn’t realism at its finest, he didn’t know what was.