Page 9 of A Match Made in Error

But not again. Never again.

I’m immune now—three festivals have burned the hope of finding a soulmate out of me.

I pull my cloak tightly around myself, concealing my shoulders from the cool autumn air. Riven turns to the side, rattling the die in his large hand and winking at the Moirai with his signature smirk, complete with laugh lines like his mouth was made for that crooked smile. He rocks the die around one final time, moving like he knows everyone is watching him. Like he wants them to be.

The die flies from his fingers, and my fingers buzz like I, too, am rolling, heartbeat syncing with the magical thrum of the die spinning round and round the basin.

Being in the arena has awakened something old and treacherous in my chest. Memories of my first matching ceremony mix with longing and resentment as I watch eager contestants await their turn, holding my breath as Riven’s die makes its way around the basin alone. Why didn’t Angora roll? His die rolls, slowing to its final turn, but the other has yet to be thrown. What is she waiting for? Their match is on shaky enough ground with Riven smarting off to the Moirai. This is not the time for one of Angora’s classic fits.

Golden light flares from the basin, brighter than I remember. Almost like unstable magic. The arena collectively inhales, and so do I. A sharp tug behind my ribs takes the breath from my lungs. The Moirai’s eyes fall on me, and the sensation intensifies, like Fate is hooking my soul and trying to pull it from my body. The golden magic in the arena snaps, a burst of golden light blinding the audience. Chaos ensues, people complain, babies cry. The crowd is so disgruntled that no one sees when I’m yanked from the sidelines by an invisible force, feet pulling up from the stones as magic carries me through the air. Who is doing this? Who hates me enough to publicly use magic to jerk me around like a rag doll in broad daylight with thousands of witnesses?

Magic’s familiar grip holds me, pulling me through the falling golden confetti. My cries of protest are swallowed by the roar of the crowd. No one is paying attention to me. No one is going to see me fall to my death.

No one, except Riven.

“Poppy?” His voice is pitched with confusion, and our eyes meet as I’m pulled over his brazen form in slow motion. My arms reach for him, as if he could do anything about whatever is happening to me. His brows pitch, concern replacing confusion as he watches my descent. “Poppy!” His cry echoes out, and he begins to move. Apparently, lack of knowledge about what is happening to me is not going to stop him from trying to help.

Like a soldier in battle, his eyes assess the scene, watching the speed and trajectory of my fall. His legs kick out from under him, tearing through the velvet curtain without thought for the girl on the other side. Hopefully, Angora gets out of the way before he tramples her.

The ground is swiftly approaching now, and since I didn’t know I was going to be plucked from the crowd and thrown across the arena, I am in no position to catch myself. Good thing I know several healing spells—I’m probably going to need them. But not as much as the protection whoever is pulling this prank on me is going to need.

From Riven. Not me.

The severe tilt of Riven’s brows combined with the fire in his eyes would turn a lesser man to stone. I wonder if his girlfriend ever sees this version of him. If she ever sees the sharp edges. The protective snarl. Or even the softness when he thinks no one’s looking. Or if she only gets the bravado-filled, whipped version of him.

His eyes pulse between me and the quickly approaching ground. “Riven!” I call out. “Don’t!” I know what he’s thinking; he’s going to try to catch me. Like an idiot. He’s going to get hurt. This is crazy, a broken arm or whatever bruises I sustain are way easier to heal than a concussion. Which he certainly will get if the full weight of my body lands on him.

“Argue with me,” his breath comes rough, torn from his chest, “after you’re not in danger.”

Then he dives.

Riven launches himself without hesitation, boots leaving stone as if gravity has personally offended him. The world lurches—lanterns streaking into lines of gold, the crowd’s screams warping into a distant roar. The magic holding me snaps like a cut thread, releasing me into open air. Wind tears at my cloak, ozonic air burning my lungs as the ground rushes up too fast, too hard.

I don’t have time to scream.

His shadows catch me first, slowing my fall, and his body does the rest—before we hit the ground.

The impact knocks the breath from both of us as he twists, taking the brunt of our impact, the stone slamming into his side with a sickening crack. We skid across the ground, magic flaring uselessly around us, until he stills—arms locked around me like the gold bands on my fingers.

“Easy—fuck, that hurts.” His face tightens as his own expletives interrupt his previous thought, pain carving sharp lines across his features. “I’ve got you,” he huffs out.

My hands shove at his chest, panic blazing through me. “Riven, what the hells were you thinking?”

He exhales through clenched teeth, eyes already scanning the arena. “I heard your objection,” he says flatly. “I just ignored it for your safety.”

“At the detriment of yours,” I snap. My hand slides to his side before I can stop myself. Heat pulses beneath my palm, instantly finding his injury. A once-perfect rib now wrong and jagged. Definitely broken. I mutter a healing spell under my breath, magic warming my fingertips as it seeps into the damage.

He hisses. “Careful.”

Then his gaze darkens.

The shadows that caught me now coil beneath his skin, veins blooming black and silver along his neck and forearms like spilled ink finding cracks in marble. His shadow fae magic rarely comes to the surface. Only when his anger goes unchecked, or he is preparing to battle. I don’t know which is happening right now.

The air around us chills, lanternlight dimming as if afraid to linger. It reminds me of watching a hazardous potion mid-brew—magic rising too fast, too potent, risky if not contained or completed soon enough.

“If you’d hit the ground,” he murmurs, voice low and venomous, “I’d have had to kill someone.”

His eyes sweep the arena, sharp and hunting now.