Page 19 of A Match Made in Error

“I’ll go see if they have scotch.” We watch Arthur walk away to the bar, knowing full well they don’t have anything but ale.

“You sure about that guy?” Riven asks as soon as Arthur is out of earshot.

“He’s just shy, not used to this kind of environment.” I can practically hear my excuses falling on his deaf ears. He hates him already. “He’ll warm up.” Riven doesn’t look convinced.

Riven absentmindedly refills my drink and slides the tankard across the table to me without looking. I catch it without thinking. “You deserve the best, Pop. And he—” He points to Arthur, scowling at the bar, waiting for someone to serve him. “He is not good enough. Not even by half.”

In my gut, I knew this, and, shockingly, it didn’t hurt me to admit it like it once would have.

Chapter Seven

POPPY

Current Festival

Ibarely slept. The night passed in restless fragments of half-dreams and sharp fears, tangled together until I couldn’t tell which was worse: the hope of still one day being chosen or the fear of a curse that would come with being caught by the Moirai.

My home is too quiet for the state I’m in. Too still. Every small sound echoes, from the creak of the floor to the uneven rhythm of my breathing—it feels like the space itself is waiting to see if I’ll bolt.

I considered it.

Just for a second.

The tempting thought flickered in my mind, but it was fruitless. Even if I ran, there are few places I could go that the Moirai wouldn’t find me.

A knock comes before I can slip deeper into my panic. Three sharp raps and my stomach drops.

It’s time.

“Festival transport,” a voice calls from the other side, clipped and efficient.

Of course. Of course, they don’t give you the dignity of hesitation or privacy to flee in a moment such as this. How is this mass forced cohabitation a good idea? Do the Moirai forget that I’m not the only one who maybe isn’t thrilled with the match? Maybe some of us want some peace before being forced to cohabitate on an island for a month. Hells, in my first match year, one pair tried to kill one another. And that’s not a metaphor.

I open the door, creaking wood giving way to shadows and a self-assured smile.

Riven rests against the door frame like he’s been there for hours instead of seconds, hair a little mussed, expression settled into a smirk. In one hand, he holds a steaming cup of coffee; in the other, a bagel wrapped in paper is held up like some offering to a very unwilling goddess. Me. I’m the unwilling goddess.

A handler of Fate stands a few feet behind him, watching us both like we’re already misbehaving. He rolls his eyes, looking very over this. Dude, it hasn’t even started yet. Not really.

Riven’s gaze drags over me in a slow and assessing way. Like he’s obsessed with me. Already in performance mode, I see.

“Well,” he says, voice rough with sleep and amusement, “you look devastating.”

I glare at him. “I got two hours of sleep.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, extending the coffee to me. “It’s working for you. Very tragic. Very alluring. Like a woman about to make several poor decisions. Which, I must say, is my favorite type of woman.” He tilts his head to the sky. “Good pick, Fate!” A rumble in the distant clouds almost feels like a response.

I take the cup, mostly so I have something to do with my hands. “Bite me.” I should be nicer to him. Even though he’s a shameless, irresponsible flirt with bad taste in women, he is never mean to me. He came bearing coffee and bagels this morning, for Fate’s sake! He’s honestly annoyingly considerate when it comes to my needs.

Riven’s head snaps down, and his grin sharpens. “Gladly,” he murmurs. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.” I take back what I said—he deserves my ire.

Heat flashes up my neck before I can stop it. I hate that. I hate that he can still do that—slip under my skin and act like it’s nothing, like this is nothing. Like we’re not about to fake an entire relationship in front of Fate itself.

Our fingers brush when I reach for the bagel. It’s brief, and technically accidental, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.

Neither do I.

For a second, the doorframe narrows. The handler disappears behind a fog of shadows. The world quiets.