Page 12 of A Match Made in Error

He looks at the Moirai.

“Neither did I,” he says evenly. Then, with a sideways glance at me, his voice drops. “She will not take the fallout for your mistake.” Now he’s threatening the Moirai? Coven help me.

He shifts, angling his body in front of mine without asking. Shielding and claiming the space like it’s his to take.

The sigils around us flare brighter.

The thread around us tightening like Fate is answering his rebuttal with a lasso of decisiveness.

“Do not test us, boy,” the Crone warns. His jaw flexes once. Twice. Then he huffs a quiet, incredulous laugh.

Angora splutters to the Moirai. “You’re joking. You have to be joking. He’s mine!”

Riven finally turns his head to her, expression unreadable now—too calm, too sharp. The sunshine menace is gone. What replaces it is something colder. Older.

“I didn’t sign up for this either,” he says, echoing my words without looking back at me, “but screaming won’t unbind Fate.”

He shifts, subtly angling his body between Angora and me now so that he’s half in front of me, half beside me—shielding me from her icy gaze without making a show of it. The shadows at his feet curl in, obedient but restrained.

Angora points at me like I’m an infestation. “This is your fault. You planned this.”

Riven’s smile returns.

It is not a kind one.

“If she had that kind of power,” he drawls, “trust me, we’d all be kneeling.”

A ripple of laughter breaks out somewhere in the crowd. It sounds nervous and unsure, mimicking my internal sentiment.

Angora stamps her foot again. “I will not be humiliated like this.”

He shrugs, careless, devastating. “Then don’t be.”

The golden thread hums between us, tugging insistently. Riven glances down at it, then at me. I know he can see the panic still caught behind my eyes by the way his fingers curl into mine as if I need an anchor.

Something shifts.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Steadier.

“This isn’t on her,” he says to the Moirai, to the crowd, to Fate itself. “She didn’t enter. If anyone’s taking responsibility for this mess”—he lifts his chin, smirking like he always does when cornered—“it’s me.” Riven exhales through his nose, quiet and resigned. “I alone can bear the weight of your punishment. Let her be free of me.”

The Crone’s staff strikes stone again. The sound reverberates through the arena like a heartbeat, silencing the murmurs, the cheers, and the gasps.

“Those who refuse the will of Fate,” the Mother’s voice rolls across the crowd, “shall carry seven years of misfortune in love. No contest. No compromise. Both of you.”

I feel the weight of her words coil around my chest, a vine of dread and adrenaline. Riven’s shadows curl protectively, making my pulse skip. In the face of the Moirai’s threats, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, but I catch the tight line of his jaw and feel the way his fingers flex.

Angora shrieks. “This is absurd! I didn’t sign up to—” Her arms flail, her voice like glass shattering in the cavernous space.

“Calm yourself, Angora,” the Maiden snaps, a shimmer of magic curling around Angora’s wrists to steady her. “Your turn awaits.”

I blink as the fallen ceremonial curtain snaps back into place, gold threads knitting themselves with a flourish of light. The Moirai’s magic moves with a dancer’s grace, sending Angora gliding to one side of the stage, perfectly poised for her match. At the same time, a soft glow coils around Riven and me, whisking us offstage with a silent, swirling hush.

Seems they’re done with the spectacle we’ve made.

We land behind a partition, the murmurs and flashes of the arena now muffled. Dust and stray sparkles from the golden halo cling to the air around us, making the space shimmer faintly. It’s beautiful magic. But all that glitters isn’t gold.

Riven shifts, one arm ready if the magic falters, his eyes scanning, alert, but once that passes, he smirks, low and teasing, voice brushing against my ear like a dare. “Congratulations. Fate just bought us a month together, whether we like it or not. Lucky us.”