A review by carly_reads
One for My Enemy by Olivie Blake

dark emotional mysterious tense

4.5

Alright I loved this more than I thought I would. It’s not surprising that a modern day Romeo and Juliet retelling with rival witch families and Russian folklore, set against the backdrop of NYC would get me. People either like Olivie Blake’s writing or they don’t, and I happen to like it. The flowery prose really adds to the ambiance of the storyline. Since you know it’s a R&J retelling, you know you’re in for some heartbreak and turmoil, but I still gasped several times while reading. I do also appreciate the number of declarations of undying love. This was a very interesting exploration of power, family, duty, betrayal, loss, and love. This was also genuinely funny- some of the characters were so sassy and the quips were perfectly executed.

Sometimes it was a bit hard to follow along because everyone is constantly making deals, and you switch between various characters story lines often, but ultimately, the vibes make up for it. The ins and outs of the magic system are not explained at all but that doesn’t really bother me. The real strength of this book was all of the amazing quotes:

“Tell Koschei that Baba Yaga sends her love,” she said simply.

This is the important thing, after all: nobody fears a beautiful woman. They revere her, worship her, sing praises to her—but nobody fears her, even when they should.

“Why didn’t you let me choose you?” he asked hoarsely. “I would have gone to you, Masha, if you’d asked. You would’ve only had to ask, and I would have chosen you over everything.”

She was a fucking nightmare and he was desperate to keep her, to have her for himself.

At best, Dimitri Fedorov was Marya Antonova’s greatest weakness. At worst, she was his.

“Write me a tragedy, Lev Fedorov,” she whispered to him. “Write me a litany of sins. Write me a plague of devastation. Write me lonely, write me wanting, write me shattered and fearful and lost. Then write me finding myself in your arms, if only for a night, and then write it again. Write it over and over, Lev, until we both know the pages by heart. Isn’t that a story, too?” she asked him softly.

“What does it mean to be a Fedorov son if we destroy ourselves in the process?” Dimitri asked, and his expression was nothing Lev had ever seen on his face before. “What does it mean to be this family or that, if loss is the only thing that comes from it?”

The universe spoke a language, if you were paying close enough attention. Many languages, even. Stars, leaves, flowers, cards, dirt—the universe was constantly spelling things out, though people rarely listened.

Power is knowing what you’re capable of and choosing if and when you give it to the world. Power is knowing when to be delicate and soft, like my sister, and when to make foolish, small-minded people think beauty and goodness are the same.
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