Page 44 of A Match Made in Error

“At least the ladies will be civil,” I mutter as the door shuts behind him. “Half those men are feral animals.”

She snorts. “You’re one of them.”

“Ah, but I’m charming about it.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

I hold out my hand, pinky extended. “Truce?”

She eyes it. “For what?”

“Don’t blow our cover,” I say. “No matter what they ask.”

She hooks her pinky with mine. “Obviously.”

“And when the girls start asking questions,” I add, completely serious as I gesture to my cock, “you’ll tell them I’m huge, devastatingly talented, and⁠—”

A sharp spark of magic snaps against my arm.

I flinch. “Ow⁠—!”

Poppy grins, already backing into the bathroom. “Finish that sentence and I’ll upgrade it to a lightning strike next time.”

I rub my arm, watching her go. “Rude,” I call after her. Then, louder, “Watch out for the octopus!”

The door shuts behind her.

I glance back down at the glass in the bedroom to find the creature has migrated to follow me, beady eyes looking up my towel skirt. “…I knew it.” I drop my towel to cover the glass. “Shows over.” I guess I have to start getting ready for the stag night.

The sound of the ocean waves mixes with the cracks from a roaring beach bonfire. Loud music, the thumping kind that the tavern plays late on Saturday nights, is coming from somewhere, and as I walk up to the beach club, I can see that the drinks are already flowing.

The men have been ordered to the beach club, while the ladies convene somewhere else on the island.

Several of the men are sprawled on the lounge couches, boots off, shirts open, drinks in hand. A server hands me a drink, the strong amber liquid icy down my throat when I swallow. Yeah. I’m going to need several of these to deal with this lot tonight.

I move deeper into the clubhouse, past a halfling who would really benefit from some hair pomade, talking about his match.

“She talks too much,” he groans, causing the orc and the elf he’s talking with to snort.

“Mine barely talks at all, but she squeals when it matters.” The elf bumps elbows with the orc beside him.

Animals.

I’m used to this kind of talk…but it lands wrong now. I’ve said worse in far skankier places. But now it sounds…cheap. It’s for the best I never heard Poppy’s previous matches talking about her. Her legs alone could have a million perverse sonnets written about them, and if I’d heard anyone utter a word about them, I’d be a wanted man. I’m too handsome to serve life in prison for killing some boorish idiot.

“Mine bakes bread.” Is the orc…blushing? “She reminds me of my mom.” Okay, maybe they’re not all feral. Rooting for you, big guy.

An elbow bumps into me. I turn my head, taking in a tall knight with glittering blue eyes.

“What about yours? The witch, she looks like she’d be trouble.” Suddenly, it’s like every male in the room is tuned in to listen, a prickish smile on their lips.

“She is.” My answer is sharp and controlled. His brows raise, waiting for more. “And nothing I know of her is for you.”

I move away from them, earning a couple of boos before someone carries on bragging about their sex life. If this is what the whole night will be, I’m done for. The other males begin to cheer when a warlock conjures strippers. I’d say I don’t understand why a male would enter a match-making competition and then dick around with a stripper while he’s here but…I didn’t exactly have the Moirai’s intended purpose of the Festival in mind when I signed up either.

I turn my head briefly to see what they’re getting into. A flexible nymph bends herself into a naked pretzel on a table. I wince. That looks painful. Does that shapeshifter have three breasts? That feels utterly pointless. I chuckle into my drink over my private joke. Utterly. Like an udder. But anyway, you don’t need three because you only need two to put your face between. Amateurs.

In the back of the clubhouse, in the very last seat of the very long bar, a quiet male sits by himself. I walk toward him, dodging drunk elves and cheering fae. I think his name is Noah, a witch from the capital, if my memory of the Moirai’s rapid first-night introductions is serving me. His dark red hair is tucked behind his ears, glasses high on his nose as he fusses with the cinnamon stick hanging out of his drink.