Page 53 of A Match Made in Error

“That would defeat the purpose most of the time.” I stretch my arms up above my head. The bungalow is in sight now, and all I can think about is taking a nap.

“True,” Poppy concedes.

My hands drop, pinky brushing hers, and she doesn’t pull away.

“You know,” I begin cautiously. “You didn’t have to say all that about me. The praise.”

“I know,” Poppy replies quickly. “I wanted to.”

“So…you mean it?” That’s maybe the most unbelievable thing that’s happened this week.

The sound of heels scuffing on stone punctuates her stop. “Riven.” Her hand grabs onto mine firmly as her eyes catch my gaze. “You gave me a home, a job, and the most loyal friendship I’ve ever had. Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

It’s the most terrifying answer she could’ve given.

My Adam’s apple bobs. “Thank you.”

Her smile is soft, her thumb grazing across my skin before dropping my hand. “Don’t mention it.”

We walk in silence until we reach the bungalow, where we immediately argue about what we should do the rest of the day before settling on swimming off our private dock and ordering way too much sushi for dinner. I cherish it because something tells me this is the last easy day we’ll have for a while.

Chapter Nineteen

RIVEN

The Moirai have gotten very creative with the trials this year. At least, the route to get to them has been creative. We’re waist-deep now, wading through warm lagoon water in the caves in the middle of the island. Light shines down in spots from the holes in the cavernous ceiling above, giving me brief glances of the space and people around me.

Poppy wades beside me, water slicking her linen shirt to her skin. Beneath the open-buttoned blouse, her tanned skin is covered in a dark green swimsuit that brings out the little forest-colored flecks in her eyes. Her hair is wet on the ends, hanging in a long sheet down her back. It's amazing what magic can do; only last week, her hair was short—much too short for as long as it is now.

A quiet curse slips from her lips when she steps on a rock beneath the surface. I know it hurts. I’ve done it myself at least three times. My eyes snag on her lips, watching them mutter curses and wannabe hexes at the rock.

She’s feeling spicy today, I see.

A rogue chuckle escapes my lips, snapping her attention to me.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she orders. Yes, definitely feeling spicy.

“Tell the Moirai to stop choosing challenges that make you wet.” I’m trying to get back into the schtick. The Riven, whom she has loved for years, is always armed with quippy sex jokes and swagger, but it’s not hitting the same.

She splashes me, and I laugh, but I know my grin doesn’t reach my eyes. My shadows tuck in around me, a thing they do when I’m…off. Like they sense my indecision as danger.

I step closer, crowding her space. My shadows like Poppy, maybe they will relax some being around her. It wouldn’t be the first time I eased them into her, hoping their vibrating nerves would ease.

Her breath stutters when one wraps up her leg, squeezing her thigh. “I’m sorry,” I say, regret lacing my tone because this definitely isn’t going to help whatever weirdness is happening. “They have a mind of their own sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” she says softly before retreating a step, “I know.” Her hands reach down, grasping the edge of the shadowed hand that’s formed on her thigh. “This is fake,” she coos to my shadows, petting it as she unwinds it from her leg. “And no one’s around right now to try to fool.” She pulls away, letting my shadow’s grip dissolve like sand in an hourglass until it’s firmly tucked to me again.

What is up with her? She’s never minded when my shadows touched her before. Granted, they’ve never touched her bare upper thigh, but…they didn’t mean anything by it.

I watch her body tilt, bending gracefully around the corner, and I follow suit.

“Oh, wow,” she whispers, halting after she steps up out of the water onto damp stone. I keep my composure, but I’ll admit, the scene before us is worth her shock and awe.

The cave opens wide enough to send her praising gasp echoing into the abyss.

Stone rises in curved tiers, forming a natural amphitheater. Phosphorescent moss veins the walls, casting a low, wavering light that conceals every face in half-shadow. The ceiling arches high above us, jagged with stalactites that drip steadily into the dark, the sound echoing like a clock counting down.

The pit at the center is enormous. It’s sunken and ringed in damp stone, wide enough to host a dozen jousting matches at once, though the way the sand has been raked smooth makes it clear this isn’t meant for sport.