Page 16 of A Match Made in Error

“Fine.” My smile is grim. “I’ll pay you time and a half, and you can pick one bottle from the rare shelf to take home.” There’s a bottle of orcish wine he’s been eyeing for years. It’s a hundred gold pieces an ounce and, for elven males, has a very aphrodisiacal effect. I ordered it by the crate for a lord a few years ago, and he’s been a thankful regular ever since.

He grins, elongated canines he had tipped in silver glinting in the light. “Deal. Happy travels, boss. Enjoy the island.” I turn, head shaking and body aching from the sheer mental exhaustion of the day.

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

Rik grins, lowering his voice. “Hey, maybe it’ll be fun. A month on an island with the Ice Queen? I envy you.” My blood runs cold. Is he talking about Poppy? “Give you a week, and she’ll be thawed, naked, and telling you to shut up while you ruin her.”

“What did you say?” An incredulous smile appears across my face. Surely he didn’t just say what I think he did.

“Just that you’ve fucked your way through worse odds. A month alone with Poppy? That ice isn’t surviving your mouth and charm.”

My smile dies, heart thudding in my ears as I slowly turn. “Talk about her like that again, and you’re done working here.” His eyes widen, hand stopping mid-wipe on the counter. “You’re still standing right now because I’m choosing restraint, but you’re making me nostalgic for my old ways, and if you keep talking, I may reconsider my alliance with peace.” A daydream of slamming his skull into the counter makes me feel warm inside. Solider Riven would have already done it, but as Poppy says, I’ve been working on self-control.

He stammers, like a man who is looking into Death’s dripping maw, “Sorry, man. It was a joke.” I know this was an ill-fated attempt at humor. We say shit like that all the time. Bar talk to pass the time. But his talking about Poppy that way crosses a line. She isn’t some conquest. She’s my best friend.

“Don’t let it happen again.” I hold my stare, eyes flicking to the counter. My fist wraps around a pot of honey, turning it over and holding it that way until the last drop has spilled out. “You missed a spot.” Blood boiling, I leave him. I cannot afford a fight tonight. He’s not worth it, and I don’t want to be bloody or bruised tomorrow. Would I look good with another roguishly handsome scar on my lip? Probably. But Poppy hates it when I fight. Plus, who would run the Foxhole if I ended the only male who agreed to help while I was gone? It wouldn’t be practical.

The corridor to the back door is dark, light pooling in only from the open doors of the private rooms we have back here. I walked past one such room, laughter and root smoke pouring into the hallway. My eyes pass over the inhabitants, a group of regulars draped over my furniture like they own the place. One male is sitting with a woman in his lap, and when she tosses her light hair over her shoulder, my eyes catch on Angora’s face.

The male she’s sitting on, like he’s her throne, is her match from earlier. I recognize the bastard now. He’s a recent regular, a lord I assumed has limitless access to daddy’s money, who loves women and expensive booze.

His fingers trail lazily over the bare skin of her shoulder. Her head tilts back, laughing at everything he says. There’s no way he’s that funny. She never laughed at my jokes.

Her head casts back again, like proper posture is unable to showcase how hilarious and charming he is. My teeth grit when I see how she is glowing. She’s without the annoyed lines on her forehead like she always was around me. Fates, I’m an idiot. Did Fate know seeing her with him would drive me crazy? Not because she’s with him, but because he’s everything I’m not. We were both born into prestige, but while he wears his like a well-fitted suit, mine drove me to war.

I should walk away and act normal. I should not imagine punching him so hard his stuffy ancestors feel it just because I’m jealous his father gave him a trust fund and perfect hair, and mine gave me commitment issues and a slightly crooked left incisor. That his parents taught him decorum and mine taught me that marriage is a sham and true love isn’t often real.

Shit. She’s looking at me.

Walk away.

No. Smile. Act unbothered. I feel my mouth pinch with chagrin. No, not that smile. Not the murder smile. The charming one.

And now she’s walking up to me. Perfect. Don’t say anything stupid.

“Hello, Riven.”

I snort. So formal. “So that’s it? You roll some dice, and suddenly he’s your soulmate?” That was stupid. I sound jealous. And maybe I am, but not over her.

A rosy blush colors her glittering high cheekbones. “Not yet, he isn’t.” She dares a demure glance over her bony shoulder, tucking her hair behind her ear and giggling when he winks at her.

“You asked me to go to the Festival with you, and I did, and then you ditched me in record time?” She’s all but forgotten me, as everyone does.

She rolls her head, cat-like eyes looking me up and down. The edges of her lips lift, taunting me. “You’re jealous.”

I scoff out my rebuttal. “I’m not jealous that he has you.”

“Good.” Her eyes leave me, suddenly finding her nail beds extraordinarily interesting. “You’re with Poppy now anyway.” She scans me again. “You could have refused, you know. Begged them for me instead.” Her words are direct, her eyes testing. She knows that it wouldn’t have mattered, yet her ego is waiting for me to tell her I wish I had chosen her even though she has already moved on. Maybe we’re more similar than I thought. When I don’t respond, she adds, “We’re over now, just to be clear.”

I don’t argue. I don’t plead. I simply nod once and rap my knuckles once on the edge of the doorframe. “Obviously.”

Angora walks back to her match as I fade into the swell of noise at the front of the bar. The dice may have set this into motion, but the hurt roiling in my heart started long ago. This has nothing to do with Angora, nothing to do with Poppy, none of it ever did.

Chapter Six

POPPY

My apartment is waiting for me upon my return, as silent as it always is. I pass the discarded shoe pile by the door and speed-walk to my bedroom, internally repeating my new mantra. Don’t think about it. If you think about it, you’ll get upset, and if you get upset, you will spiral.