Page 1 of A Match Made in Error

Chapter One

POPPY

Three Years Later

Current Festival

Iadjust the candles along the bar with my magic until their flames steady into that honey-soft glow Riven likes. It’s warm enough to flatter everyone but also dim enough to make secrets feel safe to be shared. That’s how he keeps Fate’s Fortune’s elite coming back time and time again. The night crowd is light in the Foxhole lounge today, murmuring beneath low music and clinking glasses.

“How late are you working tonight?” Elara asks, spinning the straw around in her drink with her magic as she awaits my answer.

“I’m hoping to leave here soon—I doubt we will be that busy.” I rub a rag over the countertop absentmindedly.

“So,” she says casually, popping a sugared berry into her mouth from the tip of her drink skewer. “Coven girls’ night is next month. My vote is enchanted masquerade. Masks. Drama. Mild emotional revelations.”

I snort. “Mild? You cried for an hour last time because someone spilled wine on your gown.”

“That was vintage starfruit rosé and a handmade fae ballgown, and you know it.” Elara grins. “Fine. What about potion-and-pajamas? Everyone brings a brew and a beauty care potion.”

“I like that one,” I admit. “Low effort. Maximum gossip.”

Elara hums thoughtfully. “We could theme the drinks. Love potions. Luck charms. Regret tonics.”

I arch a brow. “Regret tonics feel targeted.”

Elara only smiles, soft and easy, and changes the subject without missing a beat. “Okay, but tell me honestly—was the sangria I brought last time too fruity?”

I laugh. “Isn’t that the point?”

We continue talking about this until her husband shows up and shuffles her into a darkened corner, but until he does that, she doesn’t mention soulmates. Or bonds. Or the way everything in Elara’s life quietly rearranged itself into bliss last year when she found love.

The candle beside me flickers light onto the small painting of Riven and his old war unit. He’s grinning in it, all sunlit bravado and sharp-edged eyes under streaks of battlefield dust. Each of the men in that photo were once a co-owner of this bar, but one by one, they left and moved on until only Riven was left in charge of this upscale watering hole on the edge of Fate’s Fortune.

The real-life Riven is standing by the entrance to the kitchen, chuckling softly at a customer’s joke, shoulders relaxed. His smile is easy, but I see the tension coiled in his posture, as if charm is his shield now and he’s always ready for war. I watch him for half a breath, then turn away before he can feel it. I’m too busy to eavesdrop on his inane conversations. Someone has to keep the place running. I’m thankful that Riven gave me this job years ago, but with each passing year, I’ve taken on more and more responsibility. He compensates me well though—being the leading trader of rare and exotic alcohol in the realm has not left him hurting for coin, and he shares it fairly with his crew of loyal employees. My eyes cast up at him again, taking in the hard lines and muscles earned from hard work lifting kegs. He looks like Fate kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Go wreak charming chaos upon the world,” and he knows it. I roll my eyes at how puffed up he’d get if he knew I thought that of him.

If there had ever been a moment when I wanted Riven like that, it passed without ceremony after our first Festival. Any attraction I’d once had for Riven settled more and more into trust until he felt less like a possibility and more like a fixture in my life. Like an heirloom or beloved piece of jewelry. I long ago stopped imagining him as a love story and started counting on him as a constant.

The front door opens, letting in the damp autumnal air, sending a hush across the room. I watch as Riven’s playful, teasing energy turns austere as his latest girlfriend struts her way to his side. My eyes roll, like my subconscious is trying to wipe the vision away. He has the worst taste in women. The latest, Angora, struts over to him in a coat that looks like it’s made of silver frost and entitlement. She’s tall, willowy, and carries on her the faint smell of enchanted orchids and expensive trouble. Her hair, ice-blonde and perfectly straight, falls to her waist in a sheet that never seems to frizz, even in the rain. I’m a witch and I can’t even accomplish that with magic. I run a hand subconsciously over the hair I fought into a braid this morning.

She swans through the room like she owns every molecule of the autumn air that followed her in, and she doesn’t greet Riven so much as seize him. With two glittering fingers, she hooks onto the front of his shirt with a feline smile that says, I own you, and you’re happy about it.

She pulls Riven in with a slow, calculated smile that shows just enough teeth for it to look like affection. “Miss me, baby?” she purrs, already twisting his collar between two glitter-lacquered fingernails like she’s adjusting a puppet.

Her magic—purchased, not of her own creation—sparkles around her human form, all glamour and no warmth. She clings to Riven, feigning affection, but I see through it. She doesn’t care that he’s kind or funny or fiercely protective, just that he’s hot and wealthy.

He laughs too loud, a forced bark to make her feel important.

She leans in, smiling the way predators do when they’re pretending it’s play, and begins tearing into him with quiet, practiced precision. I can’t hear the words, but I see the flinch he tries to hide and the way his shoulders dip in reluctant agreement. He always gives her exactly what she wants, even when it chips something off him. Her posture screams fury while his sigh says he’s already surrendering. Again.

Riven Shadowbane, ladies and gentlemen. Lethal on a battlefield, helpless in the face of a beautiful woman with perfect hair.

Pleased to have her way, she squeezes his face between her manicured fingers and pecks his lips before turning and leaving the bar, taking the chill in the air with her.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, Riven exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire time she’d been here. His shoulders, broad enough to block the doorway, drop as the color rushes back into his face.

Then he spots me watching.

And just like that, the spark in him returns as he walks over to me: cocked grin, lazy swagger, mischief settling on him like a second skin. “Tell me you saw none of that,” he murmurs, hands resting on the bar with a smile that should be illegal. “Lie if you have to. I’m fragile.”