BLACK MAGIC

Miles pov

I blinked at the mirror on the floor again, horrified. It was undeniable now.

I was staring at Graham Wilson. No. I was in Graham Wilson.

And he was in me.

The realization slithered down my spine like ice. I tried to tell myself it was just the drugs. That I must be hallucinating. But no hallucination feels this raw, this vivid.

And then the door flung open again.

"Mr. Graham! You're awake! Thank heavens," the nurse exclaimed again, rushing to my side with her tray.

"I'm not—" I started, my voice still gravelly, foreign. "I'm not Graham. I'm Miles. Miles Kaden. Something's wrong. This isn't my body."

Her brows furrowed.

"Oh, poor thing. Concussion. Confusion is normal. Just relax, Mr. Graham. Don't try to talk too much, okay?"

"No! You're not listening! I'm not him!"

But she was already checking my IV drip, adjusting my pillows like I was some dainty porcelain doll.

The other nurse walked in with a tray of medications and a smoothie.

"Here's your favorite. Banana-berry with almond butter."

I almost spat.

"I don't drink this stuff. I hate bananas. For the love of God, would you listen to me?!"

They shared a concerned glance.

"Definitely a concussion. Poor Mr. Wilson. He's always been high-strung. This will pass," the second nurse whispered.

Meanwhile, across the room, me — the real Graham — was waving a hand in the air.

"Hey! I'm starving over here! Can someone get me eggs benedict and a protein shake? My body's not gonna fix itself!"

His voice, my voice, was so arrogant, so completely full of himself, I almost threw the smoothie at him.

"Yes, sir," a nurse muttered, scribbling something and rushing out.

This was insane.

Absolutely. Freaking. Insane.

Minutes dragged on. More medical people came in and out, poking me with needles, measuring my pulse, showering me with gentle voices and too many questions.

But every time I tried to say the truth, they looked at me like I was an adorable idiot.

When the room finally cleared, and all I heard was the faint beep of machines, I sighed.

Peace.

But not for long.

Because I heard movement. Shuffling. Then a shadow at the edge of my bed.

He was standing right there. Graham. My body. That smug-ass expression wrapped around my face like a bad Halloween mask.

"Alright, what the hell did you do?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"Me? What the hell did you do?"

He pointed a shaky finger at me. "Don’t play dumb. What kind of voodoo bullshit is this? Envious much? Did you envy my body that badly you conjured up some Freaky Friday ritual to steal it?"

I blinked.

"You think I planned this? You think I want your self-obsessed, cologne-drenched excuse of a life?!"

"You were chained to my door like a lunatic protester. Of course, you're crazy enough to plan this. You practically begged to be me.

I gritted my teeth. "I didn't do anything."

"Bullshit."

I glared at him. At my own face twisted up in suspicion and disgust.

"Think I wanted this?" I yelled. "Think I had planned to get hit by a damn wrecking truck just so I could switch bodies with you?"

"You said it yourself," he snarled. "You stepped in front of that building like some saint on the corner. You think being poor gives you some sort of divine right to steal a man's life?"

"You wanted to demolish my house!"

"I own your house!"

"You own the land," I snapped. "Not the people who live on it!"

He took a breath, then leaned in — too close. I could see my own pulse throbbing at the temple. The jawline I never appreciated until it was on someone else. The lips I knew were mine because I'd bitten them to blood in stress.

"You're jealous," he snarled.

I laughed. "Of what? Your worthless life and expensive watch?"

"Of this," he scorned, his hand sweeping downward at himself — at me.

"You wanted it. The stares. The fame. The moniker. And you pulled some black magic voodoo trick and stole it."

"I didn't—"

"I'll have you arrested," he barked. "I don't know how yet, but I will. I'll find the best attorneys money can pay—

For what?" I asked, shoving off the blankets and standing on the floor with my feet. "You gonna sue yourself?"

He paused. For just a second.

And I did something foolish.

I got up.

He stepped in closer.

And we were there, chest to chest. Shoulder to shoulder. Eye to eye.

"What are you going to do?" I gasped, grinding my jaw shut. "Punch you? You'll be assaulting your own face."

His breath hitched.

I grinned. "Didn't think of that, did you?"

His fingers twitched.

So did mine.

It hit me all at once — a burst of limbs and rage and something that was entirely too hot to be hate.

"Give me back my body!" he bellowed, grabbing for my hospital gown.

"No! You give me mine!" I snarled, shoving him away.

We flailed — feet slamming into wires and bedsheets and IV stands — and then we were both on the ground in a mess of groans and curses.

I was sprawled across him — or him across me — whatever.

His breath was burning on my cheek.

My body, underneath me, was struggling. Flush. That face I hated now was more kissable than it ought to have ever been.

We stayed still.

Panting.

Eyes locked.

His hands were on my waist. Mine were clenched in his robe.

The air between us crackled with something… unnatural.

He moistened his lips.

I spun away — fast — and leaped off him like I'd been burned.

We both sprang to our feet at the same time, back to opposite walls, avoiding each other's eyes.

"That didn't happen," I muttered.

"Damn right, it didn't," he said too quickly.

Silence.

Thick, awkward, nipping silence.

I clenched my jaw.

I wanted to be out of his stupidly well built body,This wasn't over.