Page 56 of A Match Made in Error

I can feel the pulse of my magic behind my eyes, making them glow and allowing me to see through the darkness. My power giving me a predator’s edge that Poppy has never seen before. That I haven’t felt since I was at war.

Another beast attacks, running with all four paws on the ground, saliva dripping from its feline maw. My power flares again, dark and lethal, and disintegrates the illusion once more. I roll my shoulders back and steady my breathing.

Whatever sunshine I normally wear has disappeared entirely.

Chapter Twenty

POPPY

“Is that all you’ve got?” Riven laughs, a dark chuckle devoid of all joy. My breath catches, but not because I’m afraid. I’m in awe. I knew this side of him existed, the lethal side that earned him a reputation and all those medals in the war, but I’d never seen it.

Another beast steps from the darkness, this one bigger and cloaked in as many shadows as I am. Though I’m wrapped in the warm embrace of Riven’s shadows, this beast seems to be wearing darkness itself. The temperature drops lower and lower with each step it takes toward us. This creature is cloaked and walking erect like we are, but I cannot make out any other features aside from the wide jut of its shoulders beneath the cloak.

“Touch her,” Riven’s voice is like raspy death, “and I’ll feed you your own shadows.” I feel his power push out from him again. I’ve never heard him talk of his magic like this, like he can wield it as sure as a weapon, but it feels as tangible as mine always does. Only darker.

“Riven,” I hiss when the illusion shudders again. What happens if the Moirai’s magic shatters while you’re within it? Maybe nothing. Maybe disfigurement. I’d rather not find out. “It’s an illusion. You know, pretend.”

Riven’s breath is slightly pinched when he responds, and I can see the heave of his shoulders as he draws in another breath. Soldier’s breathing my ass. “Then it can pretend to die by my hand. And I’ll pretend to hate doing it.”

“Riven, please, we need to figure out how to—by the cauldron!” I curse and look down. Air hisses from my lungs as a searing pain slices just under my shoulder on the side of my arm. Slithering like an octopus arm, a thick rope of thorn-covered vine retracts from Riven’s shadows. I hear them hum, singing in a language I can’t understand, no doubt telling him I’ve been cut.

His power flares uncontrolled, so much so that the entire cave wall gets momentarily engulfed in flames. The illusion glitches once more, rippling so much that I can see the shocked faces of the other contestants for a moment.

I hear his growl.

He is losing control.

No, let me correct myself. He’s already lost it.

There’s no way this is a performance. He has told me countless war stories of his power and the limits of it, but he has never described having the ability to shatter witch illusions or wield fire. Unless this is part of the Moirai’s illusion, I would say that only extreme emotion could coax magic like this from him.

I watch him move like a man in war. Cold. Exact. Terrifyingly beautiful in the precision of his attacks. I don’t think this is about gaining favor with the Moirai. I think this is about protecting me.

“Stars above, you’re dramatic.” I reach out, placing a hand on his back. His muscles ripple and freeze before softening under my touch. The preternatural glow around his golden irises fades, and I see his body relax into his normal charismatic posture, complete with a charming smile.

“Dramatic?” His voice sounds offended. “I am trying to prevent your untimely demise, you ungrateful menace.” I can’t help it when my lips tug up in a smile. Just like I can’t help the traitorous skip of my rebellious heart. “…Why are you smiling?” His voice is softer now, his cocky grin shifting into something real.

“Because you’re doing this feral protector thing.” My eyes caress his face, and my mind flashes with visions of his protective stance and how it felt to have his shadows cocooning me in their safe embrace. “It’s kind of hot,” I try to joke, but it falls flat due to the airy cadence.

“I am not feral. I am a warrior. And I’m always hot.” He steps toward me, hand reaching out until his thumb can gently graze my wound. “Are you okay?” he whispers. In this moment, I know that he’s not trying to impress the Fates; he is just…taking care of me. His soft gaze looks over my wound, lips tight with disappointment. “I’m sorry I let you get hurt.” I can hear the defeat there, and all I want to do is tell him it was enough. That he is enough.

The illusion snaps like breaking glass before I can respond.

Fog plumes around us in a dramatic final display of the Moirai’s power. Riven’s reflexes send him into action one final time, and I watch with amusement as he swings at the air.

“You just punched fog.”

“It looked solid. You were just cut by a sentient plant; we can’t be too careful.” His hand is still on my arm, below a cut that disappeared with the Moirai’s simulation. “Who’s to say fog can’t be poisonous or try to suffocate us?”

He catches me by the shoulders before I can take a second step, steering me into a ribbon of sunlight cascading from the hole in the cave ceiling like the rest of the world has ceased to exist. The crowd fades. The Moirai’s voices blur, asking—no, ordering—us back to our seats, but he ignores them all.

“Hold still,” he says, already too close. “I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

His fingers skim the place on my arm where the cut was, his focus narrowed and frighteningly gentle. He leans in—close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath brush my skin, and my pulse stutters like it’s forgotten its rhythm. Then his attention drifts to my wrists, my legs, and finally to my face.

Both hands come up, cupping my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheeks as he pushes my hair back and tips my head up, baring my neck to the light. Heat floods me, sharp and dizzy. I taste metal on my tongue, adrenaline—or something far more threatening—taking over.

One hand slips to my waist. The other lingers at my jaw, worrying at a tiny bruise that definitely came from me slamming my head into the bathtub, not the trial. Still, his touch makes it feel newly earned.