Page 20 of A Match Made in Error

Riven’s eyes flick up to mine, something unreadable passing through them that somehow feels both soft and sharp, but then it’s gone.

“Ready?” he asks, too casually. No. Absolutely not. “Who knows, we might have fun.” While it took him nearly thirty years to develop his knack for making everything fun or a joke, it only took me three failed Festivals and a decade and a half to develop my cynicism.

“Probably not. Let’s get this over with.”

He offers a quiet laugh, falling into step beside me as the handler turns and leads the way down the stairs and then to the path leading to the docks.

The fog clears somewhat with the rising sun, allowing me to see every single besotted couple making their way onto the ferry. The opulent boat is stocked with brunch, cocktails, and musicians who look personally offended by silence. Riven’s hand finds the small of my back, helping guide us through the crowd until we’re at the back of the boat. I sit with a huff. This ferry ride is an unnecessary addition. Magic could’ve snapped us to the island in a heartbeat, but the Moirai prefer ceremony over mercy. Always.

“Everything okay?” Riven asks, his face too close to mine.

“No,” I growl under my breath. “Every single couple looks so happy!” My tone is incredulous because that’s how I feel. Every time I’ve been in the Festival, at least one couple is ill-matched and makes it very clear. But this year, each and every one of them is giggling, kissing, and holding hands. How? How does Fate get it right for the first time in decades, and I’m still out in the cold? Maybe we’re the mismatch this year.

Riven chuckles. “I never considered you one to relish in the suffering of others.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, steam spilling from his mouth into the cold air when he exhales. “I like it.”

“Shut up.” I roll my eyes.

“Stick with me, babe.” His sharp incisors bite into the bagel, cream cheese lingering on his lip. “I’m excellent in a crisis and devastatingly handsome under pressure.” I’m sure my face gives away the fact that I’m not so convinced. “Chin up, gorgeous. We’ve survived worse.”

I snort. “Have we?”

“What about the orc brawl in the Foxhole last spring solstice?”

I shiver. Yeah, that was bad.

“Fine, I trust you.” His wink is smooth. Honed from years of practice.

In general, I do trust him. But do I trust this is a good idea—that our plan to mess with Fate won’t end horrendously? No. No, I don’t. “Just give me my bagel.”

By the time we disembark, the sun is kissing the horizon, and the Isle of Fate has risen out of the sea like something conjured for spectacle and intimacy. Palm trees arch overhead, white stone paths gleam in the sun, and the air is heavy with salt, magic, and the soft thrum of anticipation. Couples spill off the ferry ahead of us in a wave of laughter and clutched hands, already snuggling into each other as if the island itself is tugging them closer.

Riven does the same without missing a beat, slipping an arm around my waist like it’s muscle memory. Like this is what we’ve always done. He smiles for the watching world. It’s convincing enough for those who don’t know him, but I feel the hesitation in the way his fingers flex, like he’s remembering this is only for show. This closeness is wrong for friends, and too careful for lovers. I’m about to pull away and call it off when I glance up at him and I catch it: the flicker of unease beneath the swagger that I interpret as the fear of being found out, the worry that others will see his shortcomings and not choose him. After seeing that, I finally allow myself to relax into his hold.

The island hums around us, seductive and watching, and I realize it’s already doing what it was designed to do—stripping him bare in ways his charm could never cover.

Lanterns float over the uneven terrain, sand shifting beneath my sandals as we make our way toward what appears to be a beach club that starts on the sand and then continues out until it hovers over the water. The front wall of the club is open, letting people easily filter off the dance floor and into the ocean air without the hassle of a door. An elven bartender stands behind the teak bar within, shaking a martini with flair and a flirtatious smile. Long banquet tables sit directly on the sand, decorated with muslin cloth and low, flickering candles.

“Do you think I’m underdressed?” Riven has a smile playing on his lips because he doesn’t actually care. I pull back, my eyes passing over him from leather sandals to crisp shorts that sit above his knees and show off the beginning of the tattoos that cover most of his thighs, to the open floral shirt that allows his gold chain and smattering of chest hair to peek out.

“No,” I rasp, “you’re fine.” Me, on the other hand…not so sure. I’d dressed well today, in a matching set of cream-colored, flowy linens. The slightly oversized shirt is half tucked into the front of the wide-leg pants. I’d even curled my hair and used my magic to give myself a sun-kissed glow and a few freckles on the bridge of my nose, but it doesn’t matter. The best outfit in the world couldn’t hide how nervous I am. I know Riven can feel it, the slight tremor in my hands, just like he can hear the slightest tremble in my voice.

One month.

I can do this.

I exhale slowly, holding my head high as if confidence is the problem and not years of emotional trauma at the Moirai’s hands.

Music hums low and rhythmically, magic threading every note as the promise of approaching moonlight bids the sun goodbye over the sea. The beauty of it, the perfection, is almost disorienting. Lulling my nerves a little bit like the sea pulls sand from the shore.

“Where should I sit?” I ask nervously.

“With me, sweetheart. That’s where you belong.” I nod and blow out a steadying breath. “Milady,” Riven says against my neck, pulling out my chair at one of the dressed tables like the well-mannered gentleman his society-obsessed mother raised him to be. He sits beside me, sideways so his legs can bracket my chair. I watch as the swan-like paired couples sit down, one after another, in a choreography of silks and linens around us.

“Welcome, matches!” The Maiden appears from nowhere, bouncing onto the stage in a deceptive show of youth. She, like all the Moirai, is far older than she looks. The couples around us clap enthusiastically, and I feel like I’m leaving my body as my clammy hands slap irregularly against one another. “Who’s ready to fall in love?” she cheers, earning her another round of applause and a few whistles of approval.

“Ugh.” I make sure only Riven can hear me groan. “I just want to go to bed.”

“Wow,” he drawls. I pick up my glass, the condensation on the glass cooling my fingers. “Didn’t even make it through the welcome speeches before trying to lure me away to bed. I knew island air did things to people, but please, Poppy, have some self-control.” His hand grasps his chest in a show of feigned scandal. “I’m a gentleman.”