Chapter Four #3
“You know,” he says mildly, like we’re discussing the weather, “if you keep glaring at the ceremony like that, someone’s going to think you’re planning a jailbreak. Or a murder. Possibly both.”
“Riven,” I warn, but it comes out huffed on a breath of laughter.
“I’m serious, and I get it. Fate really saw us thriving and said, ‘Let’s mess with that.’” His mouth quirks when I don’t laugh. “Breathe, Pop. Nobody’s dragging you to the altar tonight.”
I snort. “If they tried, I’d cause a scene.”
He scoffs, holding a hand to his chest. “Don’t be rude about it. I’m a catch,” he says, close enough that only I can hear, a smile playing on his lips.
When his joke is once more met with my steely gaze, he pivots approaches.
Always the strategist. “It’s just a ceremony.
Not a prophecy carved into your bones.” I bit my cheek, eyes cast to the side as I consider his words.
I guess he’s right. We made it through this once as friends three years ago.
We can do that again. Worst thing that happens is I get to spend a month on a tropical island with my best friend.
There are worse fates. “Don’t spiral alone; we’ll figure this out together. ” He nudges my hand with his fingers.
“How are you so calm?”
“Someone has to be calm. If I panic too, we’ll end up fleeing the city by dawn with a Moirai curse hanging over our heads.
” He rolls his eyes when I glare at him and decides to answer again.
“Because this is not a death sentence. It’s a vacation.
Worst case, we drink too much and complain about it together.
” The crowd is cheering in the background, watching as Angora rolls her die.
“I didn’t do this looking for destiny. I came here looking for a good time. This can still qualify.”
“And Angora?” The name we had yet dared speak.
“She’ll be there too. It’s not like she’s going to be in love with the schmuck they match her with. You saw her; she was more pissed about this than we were.”
“An eleven,” the Maiden calls out. Just over the cutoff.
Couples have to roll a ten or higher out of twenty to be matched.
“A respectable score that will earn you a place in the Festival.” Claps ring out, a public display of adoration Angora is no doubt glowing over. “Please make your way backstage.”
“Some poor bastard just got assigned a character-building exercise,” he says lightly. “Good luck to them.” Riven’s joke cuts me. I’d be heartbroken if my boyfriend talked about me that way. I mean…she is horrid, but horrid people deserve love too.
The curtain pulls back, revealing a devastatingly beautiful elven lord and a gushing Angora.
If she were a caricature drawing, her heart-shaped eyes would be popping out of her head.
She’s smiling up at him, taking in his nearly seven-foot frame and perfectly coiled blond hair with breathless smiles. Not even sparing Riven a glance.
“Angora, we’re over here,” Riven calls out, but Angora doesn’t even flinch. As if he’s a ghost speaking from another plane.
Angora reaches for the elf’s hand like this is what she was waiting for all along. “Your jacket is impeccably tailored. Who is your seamster?”
Riven’s reaction is immediate and visceral. Not heartbreak, but definitely ego-bruising shock. His jaw tightens, and a flash of something dark and possessive cuts through his usual charm and insouciant aura.
“Guess I should’ve worn something nicer.” He looks down at his clothes, as if this is truly the reason why Angora is hanging off the rich lord’s arm instead of standing by the man she came here with today.
“Don’t be jealous,” I whisper. “She likes shiny things; it doesn’t mean anything.” What I don’t say is that it’s easy to get over something immediately when it meant nothing. From the outside looking in, it seems like their relationship was as shallow as a number three cauldron.
“I’m not jealous,” he huffs, practically breathing fire. “I’m…annoyed. How is she over me…just like that?”
“You sound jealous,” I argue, moving past him and pressing deeper into the shadows.
“I’m not.” The vein in his neck pulses. “I am many things,” he holds his hand up to tick off the things he finds to be true of himself, “very attractive, extremely well-endowed—”
I snort. “Don’t forget humble.”
He continues without missing a beat. “—Occasionally inebriated, and maybe a little homicidal, but never jealous.”
“What happened to being in this for a good time?” I throw his words back at him. “I thought the worst thing that could happen was you and I drinking margaritas on the beach together?”
Riven huffs a laugh. “I underestimated Fate’s flair for theatrics and didn’t realize my public dishonor and rejection as the resident eligible bachelor was on the table as an option,” he says. “That’s on me.” He glances away, jaw tight for half a second, before the grin is back.
When he sees my frown and furrowed brows, Riven’s mouth quirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Margaritas are still on the table, Pop,” he says.
“Just…apparently they’ll be served with a side of cosmic interference and my personal humiliation.
” Riven exhales through a crooked smile, but when I don’t reciprocate, he tries again.
“Riven, no one cares about your humiliation. You’re a rich, hot young fae. While I am a witch rapidly reaching spinsterhood who’s being forced to endure another loveless Festival.”
His smirk deepens. “You think I’m hot?” My glare deepens, and he takes a step back, hands up as he huffs a laugh.
“Sorry, Poppy. Just think about it this way: this isn’t your whole story,” he says easily.
“It’s just a month. Fate gets bored. It always does.
Then you can go back to your normal life. ”
I try not to flinch because what I hear is: a month with me is nothing. I’m nothing. None of this matters yet again.
“Whatever, I can’t do this.” I don’t have it in me to nurture his fragile ego right now. Not while I’m panicking about my love life and how I’m going to endure yet another loveless Festival of Fate. But I have to.
Shock continues to vibrate through my bones, and I can hear the words of the Moirai and their underlying meaning ringing in my ears.
Once matched, refusing the outcome results in seven years of bad luck in love.
I’m already unlucky enough in love; I can’t add being cursed to the mix too.
I already have days when I doubt love will ever choose me, but taking myself out of the chance of it for seven years… that thought is too much to bear.
Deep breaths refuse to come easily, and the giddy joy from most of the matched couples I move past in my pursuit of fresh air and space is making my stomach sour.
I flee the noise and the eyes and the expectations around me.
The worn path behind the stage leads to the Sacred Grove.
A place where challenges in past Festivals have taken place.
A place that smells like moss and old magic.
My shoulders relax when I meet the shade under the willow tree at the grove’s center.
Long branches cocoon me, hiding my red, blotchy, anxious face from the crowd celebrating and the gooey-eyed matches.
I press my palms into the bark of the tree, breathing hard, trying to steady the riot in my chest.
I didn’t want this. Didn’t ask for it. Hells, I don’t even believe in the Festival anymore.
And yet, even though I didn’t enter, Fate has sunk its teeth into me again, tugging me forward into its drama-hungry maw whether I consent or not.
This month-long ordeal is happening, and I hate that the hopeless romantic in me is awakening, even as panic curls hot in my gut.
I forcibly tell myself that I have been matched with my friend, not a potential lover.
This year is just as doomed as all the others have been.
I close my eyes and inhale beneath the shelter of the willow, willing my heart to calm. I have survived worse. Everything will be okay.
“Poppy!” Riven’s voice carries over the noise, easing the tension from my body.
And even though he’s not my heart’s match, I will have Riven there.
Nothing bad will happen with Riven by my side.
He isn’t going to hurt me. Like he said, the worst thing that happens is we’re stuck on a fancy island vacation together for a month. I can handle that.
“Angora is making out with her lord over there.” He points to the contestant's tent. “I walked past three people on my way over here, mocking me for being cast to the side so quickly.” I turn, his shimmering gaze telling me that he realizes this isn’t thrilling chaos for me—it’s a reopening of a wound I had only just stopped touching—and his words tell me that, perhaps, I’m not the only one with a wound here.
I open my mouth, sighing as I ask the question I’ve been thinking from the beginning, “How are we going to handle this?”
His aura shifts. Riven hums, low and amused, like the idea has already entertained him to death. He comes closer, just enough to be invasive, just enough to feel intentional, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.
“My darling,” he says silkily, eyes sharp with something wicked, “we’re going to do what any wronged witch and deeply offended bastard would do in our positions.
” He grins slowly, until his smile is just as dangerous as it is delighted.
“We’re going to piss off Fate. We’re going to play a game within the Moirai’s perfectly crafted world.
” He takes a breath before delivering the final blow. “Poppy, we’re going to fake it.”