Chapter Fifteen
RIVEN
Current Festival
The beach is lit by torches and a roaring bonfire. I watch it, legs stretched out in the sand and my elbow supporting me as I lie on my side and watch the embers lift into the night sky. Poppy is getting a drink at the bar, or that’s what she said when she wandered off almost half an hour ago.
After the trial yesterday, and my long ass walk back to the bungalow, I got back to our bungalow to find the bathtub filled to the fucking brim, melted ice cream on the floor, and Poppy passed out under the covers cradling a half-eaten bag of cream and onion crisps.
The room looked like a drunken bard had rolled through it. Honestly, respect.
Anyway, she had woken up before me, probably because she fell asleep at dusk, and I still haven’t seen her despite the bonding activity we’ve been summoned to the beach for tonight.
Music hums, low and rhythmic, like it’s riding on the waves.
I can’t help but notice that the island feels more cozy at night.
The heavy salt air, the warmth of the sand, the purples bleeding into blues in the night sky make everything feel intimate by default.
Couples lounge on blankets in various states around the fire.
Some sit on opposite sides as if touching would mean sudden death, while others are a mess of tangled limbs. No one else is alone, except me.
Where is Poppy?
I breathe deeply and, as if called forward by my thoughts, I see the crowd part around her.
She pushes toward me, two half-drunk drinks in hand and a tentative smile on her lips.
Poppy plops down beside me. Shoulder brushing mine.
Knee nudging my thigh. She’s bright tonight—laughing easily, eyes shining, playing along like she’s finally decided to enjoy the madness instead of bracing for it.
Good. She’s still committing to the bit.
Selling it. Like I am. I was worried after yesterday that she was getting sick of me, of faking it, but here she is, playing the part like a pro.
Plus, Fate knows she deserves a little fun.
She’s always been a little reserved—introverted—but that’s gotten increasingly truer with each encounter she's had with the Festival of Fates. I’ve watched my vibrant best friend, who loves to laugh and try new things, turn inward.
She stopped humming as she tended the bar.
She no longer danced around the tavern as I put the chairs up on the tables and she swept.
I haven’t seen her so much as smile at a potential suitor in a long time.
Almost like, she’s given up. As jaded as I am to love, even I can see she deserves it.
Which is maybe part of the problem. No one deserves the love she has to give.
I bump her lightly with my shoulder when she leans in again, flashing her a grin meant for the crowd as much as for her. “Careful, sweetheart,” I murmur. “If you keep this up, people are going to think we like each other.”
I feel her laugh rumble low in my chest, but I can’t dwell on it long.
Soon, the fire crackles lower and the wind shifts.
Conversations thin around us, drifting into a hush that feels staged like the pause before a punchline.
Then, the Crone’s voice curls through the smoke.
I startle. Where the hell did she come from?
“No pair may retire from the bonding night without proof of intimacy.”
Murmurs ripple through the beach like a wave. I lift a brow, amused more than alarmed. Of course. The Moirai never let an opportunity like this go quietly.
I glance at Poppy as we all stand, a grin already forming, eyes twinkling. “Well,” I say lightly, as if this is nothing more than another performance cue, “guess they want an encore.”
Poppy blinks at me. “What do we do?”
I step up to her, just enough that it feels private, while absolutely not being private at all. My voice drops, lightly teasing. “Relax. I shaved for just this occasion.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
I straighten, projecting just enough for nearby ears to catch. “Darling, if they’re demanding intimacy, the least we can do is match our performance from yesterday.”
Her mouth twitches despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
“Untrue,” I say easily. “I’m very possible. You would know.” I offer her my hand, already smiling like I’ve planned this all along. “Come on. Let’s make Fate uncomfortable.”
She sighs, but she takes my hand, and when she rolls her eyes, it’s exactly the reaction I wanted.
We step into a small open space near the fire, clearly visible to everyone around us. Some couples are already snogging, while others sit, shoulder to shoulder, whispering to one another.
I turn her so her back is to the flames, the light gilding her hair and catching on the curve of her face. I don’t rush. A real lover wouldn’t. I let the pause stretch, let the crowd wonder.
Someone whistles. Poppy stiffens
I drop my voice just for her. “Don’t panic. I’m still pretending to know what I’m doing.”
She exhales a shaky laugh.
I lift one hand to her waist, not gripping or claiming, just enough to anchor us together so we look like a pair, not two people playing one.
The fire pops. The wind lifts. Then I dip my forehead briefly to hers before turning us slowly, like we were already dancing.
I pull her in, my lips hovering above hers. Poppy sucks in a sharp breath, and I can smell the vermouth and cherry bitters on her lips.
“We could share secrets. That’s intimate,” she suggests. No. Not good enough.
I tilt my head, studying her like a predator watches prey. “We’ve already kissed once. What’s one more?” I ask, my voice low and private. Only for her.
“It’s unnecessary, Riven. Not everyone is making out right now.”
My grin sharpens. “Now we’re making out?
Okay, Poppy, but if you keep this up, you’re going to make me feel cheap.
” I relish the pink blush that paints her cheeks and nose bridge.
I drop my voice to a raspy whisper. “It’s just a strategy.
” I see her lips purse with displeasure and remember her words from yesterday: I’m sick of feeling utterly unappealing to everyone.
My next words are softer. “But I’m going to enjoy it. ”
My next words are only for her. “Tell me if you don’t want this.” She doesn’t tell me no, but that’s not enough. “Are you sure?”
Her eyes, slightly glassy, pause on my face, taking it all in with a sigh. So strange. “Just kiss me before the tide comes in.”
With a flourish, I pull Poppy in. “This is why I like you. No dramatics.”
Slowly, intentionally, my hands slide up her thighs to her waist. A claiming stance.
I feel the burning judgmental eyes of the Moirai on us.
Her fingers fist in my shirt, like a lover embracing for impact.
She is good. I can see a spark in her eye, the little fire that comes to life behind her hazel orbs when she is enjoying herself.
She loves messing with the Moirai as much as I do.
And then she is on the move.
The world drops away as her head tilts and her lips brush mine, blurring out everything else. The fire flares behind us in response to some rogue magic, and for some reason, my shadows dance closer to it.
This kiss is different from yesterday’s. She’s leaning into me more, less hesitant. Practice makes perfect, I guess. And this kiss is near-perfect.
Her mouth is soft, and her lips taste just barely of the Manhattan she’d been nursing when she walked over to me.
She isn’t pushing, nor is she timid, but the pressure against my lips is just right.
The fabric of my open shirt smooths out, her fingers a ghost of a touch over my bare chest and gold chain, pausing on the intricate family crest charm I never stopped wearing, even when I quit speaking to my parents long ago.
I taste her sigh and melt into her touch, dipping her back, and forget I’m kissing my best friend whom I’m fake dating because we were accidentally matched together. Warmth, from the fire—or from within me, I’m not sure—coats my skin in a hot flush.
Before the kiss ends, I know I need to school my features. Of course I’m having a physical reaction to this kiss—like I told Poppy, I love kissing. But I can’t let her see it. She’s already freaking out enough about the Festival, and my reacting to this kiss will not help.
I pull back just enough to breathe. My eyes blink open slowly, as if I’m just waking up. “Purely practical. Zero feelings or untoward sensations in my nether regions. Not even a little.”
Her brows knit in confusion. “Obviously.” She pulls back but stays in my orbit like a lover would after a killer kiss. “What an odd thing to say. Of course I know you don’t have feelings.”
I overcorrected. I didn’t want her to see me being physically into the kiss, so I said some weird shit instead. Excellent job, Riven. “Good. Because if there were feelings, that kiss would have been…something.”
I turn, finding the eyes of half the contestants and all of the Moirai on us.
I flash them a grin. “If you wanted a better show, the Moirai should’ve warned us.
We’d have practiced more.” The crowd laughs, and I ease into the shield that public adoration can become.
“That would have been no hardship. Right, Pop?”
She doesn’t respond, her eyes a far-off stare settled on something to her left.
I track her line of vision, past the roaring fire and over the sand dunes, to the quickly approaching Angora.
She is alone for maybe the first time since her matching ceremony.
As always, she is a vision, her long hair glinting in the moonlight like that of an ethereal being.
She looks pretty in her flowy pants and cropped shirt, like she always does, but again, I feel unaffected by it.
It was only a matter of time. No woman has been able to keep my attention for more than a few months.
Honestly, I don’t know if it’s in retrospect because of all the trouble it caused, but I can’t for the life of me understand how I let her talk me into the Festival in the first place.
Sex couldn’t have been the motivator—even though that’s what I told Poppy—I could have gotten that anywhere if I really wanted to.
I shake my head, physically pushing away the introspection demanding my attention.
Angora has come to a stop in front of Poppy, a knowing look on her face that is nearly causing actual steam to ripple from Poppy’s fuming form. “That was quite the show of affection.”
I watch Poppy bite her lip, like she is physically keeping the words she wants to say trapped in her mouth. I should probably get her to bed before she does something she regrets.
“Goodnight, Angora.” My eyes are off her as I say this, turning to Poppy instead, making sure to grab her hand as I lead her over the unstable terrain to the path that will lead us back to our bungalow.
“I hate her,” Poppy bites out once we’re out of earshot. “That was quite the show of affection,” she mocks. “I should hex her. How do you think she’d feel about waking up as a goat tomorrow?” She pauses before a fallen tree, about to snap to clear it away.
I snort at her words and instinctively grab her by the waist and hoist her over the tree trunk before taking her hand in mine and continuing our walk. “If you’re open to ideas, I think she’d hate to have a mole on her nose more.”
Poppy doesn’t laugh. I can practically feel the humorless energy rolling off her in waves. “I don’t even get what you saw in her.” She stops, wrenching her hand from my hold to wield it like a weapon. “You were only with her because you panic when you’re alone.”
My smile drops, hands suddenly cold now that I’m no longer touching her. I attempt another joke. “I panic when I’m unloved. Not alone.” Poppy has to understand that. No one likes being unloved.
Her face softens, flinching back as if she regrets her words. “You’ve never been unloved.”
Oh, Poppy. Sweet, innocent Poppy. I smile at her, but I can see in the dying light of her eyes that it’s more pathetic than jovial. “You don’t have to pretend I’m easy to love.” I’ve always failed at it. Both loving and being loved.
She stutters in an attempt to find her voice. Searching for words she can’t find because it’s true. I am hard to love, and she knows it better than anyone.
The rest of our quiet walk back is painful.
My jaw aches from gritting my teeth, and I think I’ve made four little crescent-shaped indentations on both of my palms from how hard I’m clenching my fists.
I go to bed when we get back to the bungalow, watching her pad into the bathroom and turn the shower on.
I hear the door open a few times, and when I wave or call out to her, she makes up some excuse about a face mask or painting her nails as if she thinks I forget that her magic can do all of that in the blink of an eye.
It’s on the fourth excuse that I realize she is avoiding me and waiting until I’m asleep to climb into this bed she’s forced to share with me.
Because I asked her to go to the Festival.
Because she is forced to be matched with me.
Just more ways I’ve let someone I care about down.
I roll over and fake it, ignoring the irony of how that seems to be all I’m doing lately.
When she finally climbs into bed and stills herself, pretending to sleep, I would guess, based on the irregularity of her breathing, that she also pretends not to hear me call her name in the darkness.
Guess she is done talking to me tonight.
It took her the longest of anyone in my life, but it seems like Poppy might finally have seen the thing in me every other woman does before they leave. It seems Poppy is finally getting sick of me.
I palm the pang in my chest and roll out of bed, tugging a blanket from the shelf and walking to the chaise on our open patio. It’s my fault Poppy is here. The least I can do is give her the bed.