Page 14 of A Match Made in Error

“You sound jealous,” I argue, moving past him and pressing deeper into the shadows.

“I’m not.” The vein in his neck pulses. “I am many things,” he holds his hand up to tick off the things he finds to be true of himself, “very attractive, extremely well-endowed⁠—”

I snort. “Don’t forget humble.”

He continues without missing a beat. “—Occasionally inebriated, and maybe a little homicidal, but never jealous.”

“What happened to being in this for a good time?” I throw his words back at him. “I thought the worst thing that could happen was you and I drinking margaritas on the beach together?”

Riven huffs a laugh. “I underestimated Fate’s flair for theatrics and didn’t realize my public dishonor and rejection as the resident eligible bachelor was on the table as an option,” he says. “That’s on me.” He glances away, jaw tight for half a second, before the grin is back.

When he sees my frown and furrowed brows, Riven’s mouth quirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Margaritas are still on the table, Pop,” he says. “Just…apparently they’ll be served with a side of cosmic interference and my personal humiliation.” Riven exhales through a crooked smile, but when I don’t reciprocate, he tries again.

“Riven, no one cares about your humiliation. You’re a rich, hot young fae. While I am a witch rapidly reaching spinsterhood who’s being forced to endure another loveless Festival.”

His smirk deepens. “You think I’m hot?” My glare deepens, and he takes a step back, hands up as he huffs a laugh. “Sorry, Poppy. Just think about it this way: this isn’t your whole story,” he says easily. “It’s just a month. Fate gets bored. It always does. Then you can go back to your normal life.”

I try not to flinch because what I hear is: a month with me is nothing. I’m nothing. None of this matters yet again.

“Whatever, I can’t do this.” I don’t have it in me to nurture his fragile ego right now. Not while I’m panicking about my love life and how I’m going to endure yet another loveless Festival of Fate. But I have to.

Shock continues to vibrate through my bones, and I can hear the words of the Moirai and their underlying meaning ringing in my ears. Once matched, refusing the outcome results in seven years of bad luck in love. I’m already unlucky enough in love; I can’t add being cursed to the mix too. I already have days when I doubt love will ever choose me, but taking myself out of the chance of it for seven years…that thought is too much to bear.

Deep breaths refuse to come easily, and the giddy joy from most of the matched couples I move past in my pursuit of fresh air and space is making my stomach sour. I flee the noise and the eyes and the expectations around me. The worn path behind the stage leads to the Sacred Grove. A place where challenges in past Festivals have taken place. A place that smells like moss and old magic. My shoulders relax when I meet the shade under the willow tree at the grove’s center. Long branches cocoon me, hiding my red, blotchy, anxious face from the crowd celebrating and the gooey-eyed matches. I press my palms into the bark of the tree, breathing hard, trying to steady the riot in my chest.

I didn’t want this. Didn’t ask for it. Hells, I don’t even believe in the Festival anymore. And yet, even though I didn’t enter, Fate has sunk its teeth into me again, tugging me forward into its drama-hungry maw whether I consent or not. This month-long ordeal is happening, and I hate that the hopeless romantic in me is awakening, even as panic curls hot in my gut. I forcibly tell myself that I have been matched with my friend, not a potential lover. This year is just as doomed as all the others have been.

I close my eyes and inhale beneath the shelter of the willow, willing my heart to calm. I have survived worse. Everything will be okay.

“Poppy!” Riven’s voice carries over the noise, easing the tension from my body. And even though he’s not my heart’s match, I will have Riven there. Nothing bad will happen with Riven by my side. He isn’t going to hurt me. Like he said, the worst thing that happens is we’re stuck on a fancy island vacation together for a month. I can handle that.

“Angora is making out with her lord over there.” He points to the contestant's tent. “I walked past three people on my way over here, mocking me for being cast to the side so quickly.” I turn, his shimmering gaze telling me that he realizes this isn’t thrilling chaos for me—it’s a reopening of a wound I had only just stopped touching—and his words tell me that, perhaps, I’m not the only one with a wound here.

I open my mouth, sighing as I ask the question I’ve been thinking from the beginning, “How are we going to handle this?”

His aura shifts. Riven hums, low and amused, like the idea has already entertained him to death. He comes closer, just enough to be invasive, just enough to feel intentional, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

“My darling,” he says silkily, eyes sharp with something wicked, “we’re going to do what any wronged witch and deeply offended bastard would do in our positions.” He grins slowly, until his smile is just as dangerous as it is delighted. “We’re going to piss off Fate. We’re going to play a game within the Moirai’s perfectly crafted world.” He takes a breath before delivering the final blow. “Poppy, we’re going to fake it.”

My eyes roll, and my mouth opens to rebuke the ridiculous idea, but he straightens, unfazed and ready to defend his idea before I even shoot it down. “Oh, I know, I know. We could just be polite. Do the challenges. Smile like good little contestants and avoid the curse.” His gaze darkens, voice dropping. “But Fate dragged you back onto that stage without your consent. That deserves consequences.” He tilts his head, mock-thoughtful.

“Riven, what would that accomplish besides getting us cursed for seven years if we’re caught? As much as I hate Fate right now, I think this is something best dealt with gracefully.” Though playing in their face and messing with their game sounds fun. “What about Angora?” I ask, and he just shrugs carelessly.

“She should get to see what she’s lost.” He gestures to himself. “We’ll fake it…loudly. Obnoxiously. Make a mockery of their precious Festival while we’re at it and save my reputation as the man everybody wants.” His grin turns sharp. “And if Angora doesn’t choke on jealousy, I’ll be shocked.” Then, quieter, he adds, “You don’t owe Fate grace, Pop. Let me help you misbehave for once.”

As much as I hate to admit it, the mischievous glint in his eyes has me feeling something other than panic and fear for the first time since I was pulled into the matching arena. Why shouldn’t we have a little fun with it? They did this to us. Why should we suffer when we can make this fun? And there’s no expressed rule about faking affection…maybe this is the loophole we needed.

My eyes pass over Riven, from impish grin to rippling muscles. I trust him. Far more than I trust Fate, and fake dating him, having the realm see his affection for me, feels better than another year of being the loser everyone thinks nobody wants. Plus, unlike the previous years, I know I won’t be heartbroken after this one.

“Just to stick it to Fate?” I ask hesitantly. His grin widens, eyes sparking with the quiet triumph of a man who’s successfully talked his best friend into something reckless and is enjoying it far too much. The expression of someone who knows exactly how much trouble this will cause and can’t wait to watch it unfold.

His eyes flick between mine, warm and wicked all at once, like he’s not just corrupting me, but welcoming me into a very exclusive, very ill-advised club. “Yeah.” He nods. “If Fate’s going to drag you into this, it will have to deal with me in the process, and I’ve been told I’m one devious bastard.”

My panic ebbs away, a smile making its way onto my suddenly chapped lips. I put my hand out for him to shake. “Here’s to sticking it to Fate.” Following the rules has gotten me nothing and nowhere. At least this time, the Festival might be fun.

His palm is warm in mine, calluses scratching against my smooth skin. “Here’s to...”—his eyes drift up as he searches for the right words—“making Fate choke on its own theatrics.” I snort. His eyes twinkle with mirth. “Too much?”

“Maybe a little.” We turn, his arm slinging casually over my shoulders as we move back to the backstage area to receive our next instructions.