Page 32 of A Match Made in Error

“Nothing.” I fib, avoiding eye contact even though our faces are so close I can see the micro-fluttering of his irises.

“Hmm.” His brows cinch, mouth tipping up in the corner. “You’re breathing like your lungs are staging a rebellion. Either relax…or tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

He tips his head to the side, not enough to topple us over, but enough to put his eyes in line with mine. I think about ignoring him. But who knows how long we’ll be stuck here, glued at the literal hip. He is persistent. And persuasive.

As I’m thinking, both his hands cup my face, bracketing my jaw and bringing my face so close that onlookers probably think we’re about to kiss.

“Riven?” I breathe out cautiously. If his hands are on my face…what’s holding me up?

“Yes, Poppy?” I can feel the tingle of his peppermint-laced lips against my skin.

“Please tell me you did not call on your shadows, an ancient and revered piece of your heritage that very few outside the realm of Ombra understand, to hold me up by my ass in a ridiculous balance competition.” The shadows, from what I remember him telling me, are semi-sentient and undying. They merge with a shadow fae when they are young and stay with them until they die, after which they find another host. The shadows, like the shadow fae, are mysterious, but I do know that his shadows can fight for him, shield him, spy for him, and apparently, hold up dames for him too. A deep red blush colors my cheeks when I think about the ways he must have used them before. Like in the bedroom.

He mutters under his breath in the language of the shadows, the one I hear him use whenever his shadows are about to do his bidding, and their hold on me tightens. I know a few words, having picked them up over the years, but one of the few things Riven has warned me about his shadows is this: not to use the Midnight Tongue without him present. His shadows may like me, but other shadows could always be listening, and they apparently do not take kindly to outsiders using their language. “You have no idea what you may promise or request with the use of a few simple words,” he’d warned me.

“Don’t look down,” he says quietly. “We can’t lose our balance now.”

“I’m not,” I manage, though I want to. I rarely see his shadows in action during the day, and they must be a sight to see because I can hear the murmurs of our fellow contestants, followed by the splashing of at least 3 bodies.

“Good.” His eyes lift to mine. “Look at me instead. Everyone does—it’s soothing.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

And he freezes.

Like the sound hits him straight in the chest. Like, for half a second, he forgets about the crowd, the trial, the island, the entire world—until it’s just me in his arms and something fragile and unspoken is stretching between us.

Behind us, the heart rate monitoring screen flares. Someone’s getting excited, but I dare not look. Partly for fear it’s me, and partly so I don’t lose my balance. My eyes close, breaths forced even as I try to remain still and calm.

“Are you okay?” Curse his ability to read me.

“Mhmm.”

He doesn't buy it.

“Tell me, Poppy, or I’ll make the shadows do my bidding,” he warns, and I feel his fingers relax, slipping into my hair and holding my head aloft.

“Will you make them enter my mind and control me until I tell you?” I ask, deadpan. I’ve seen him do it before. He doesn’t know this, but I’d caught him using his shadow magic for such a thing once.

Not on purpose. I’m not a spy.

I’d been leaving the bar late. Riven stood in the shadows at the end of the alley, his posture relaxed in that way that meant absolutely nothing good was about to happen. Riven whispered in the Midnight Tongue, and his shadows seized a man. The man—who, I’d later learn, had walked out without paying his tab—froze in place, eyes wide and unfocused, like he’d forgotten how to blink.

The shadows weren’t touching him.

They were inside him, curling into his ears, brushing his temples, and then slipping past his lips like smoke with intent.

Riven had tilted his head then, almost curious. “Tell me again,” he’d said softly to the man, “but this time, try not to lie.”

The man’s mouth moved, but his voice wasn’t his anymore. It was flat and mechanical. Every secret spilling out like he was reading from a script only Riven could see.

And Riven just stood there, hands in his pockets, shadows obeying him like loyal hounds, taking the money that was owed to the Foxhole from his pockets. Calm. Beautiful. Terrifying.

He didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t touch the man.

Didn’t even look angry.