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.
I swallow. “Your hand is on my waist.”
He clears his throat and glances down, like he’s only just realized how he’s holding me. How boxed in I am by his body. “I’m stabilizing you.”
“You’re breathing on my neck.”
“Airflow,” he says quickly. “Absolutely necessary for stabilization.”
I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, my heart pounds harder because his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it firms, like he’s anchoring me against some danger unseen.
“Riven,” someone calls from the sidelines, laughter threading their voice, “it was an illusion test. Not a battlefield.”
He doesn’t look away from me. And that, more than the hands, more than the closeness, is what threatens to undo me.
Because friends don’t look like this.
And men who only see you as a friend don’t touch you like they’re afraid you might disappear if they let go.
I swallow. I’m imagining this. I have to be.
“She’s fine, man. Move so we can get this over with. The witch is fine.” The unfamiliar male voice ricochets off the cave walls.
Something dark flashes across Riven’s face.
He spins, shoulders squaring, one arm tucking me behind him like he’s bracing for violence as his voice cracks through the chamber. “Then why was it targeting Poppy? Why did it have teeth? Why was it looking at her like—”
“Riven,” the voice cuts in, properly laughing now, “it was literally a shadow puppy with baby fangs, a cloaked figure, and a weed.”
Silence drops.
Riven takes one step forward, and the temperature in the cave seems to plunge with his shifting mood.
“Laugh again,” he says quietly, voice full of malice, “and you will face the same fate as the puppy did.” His words hold gravity, pressing down on the room until everyone feels the oppressive weight of them.
The words don’t echo. They settle. Heavy. Final. The room presses inward, every breath suddenly measured, every person acutely aware of their own pulse.
I reach for him before he can do something irreversible, like siccing his shadows on this man. My fingers brush the solid plane of his back. “I’m okay, Riven,” I whisper. “You don’t have to protect me anymore.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
Then, he turns, positioning himself so completely between me and the world that everything else ceases to exist. His jaw is tight, muscle ticking beneath his skin, but his eyes soften when they find mine.
“I know,” he says, low and steady. His peppermint-laced breath ghosts over my mouth, over my cheek.
Familiar.
Dangerous.
“But try telling that to my instincts,” he finishes.
My chest aches at the word.
Instinct.
Not choice. Not care. Not affection.
Just something wired into him, something primal and unthinking. Something that would flare for anyone standing where I stood.
I nod anyway, swallowing the disappointment before it can betray me.
Of course it’s instinct, I tell myself grimly. Nothing more than that.
The Moirai appear behind us, clearly thinking they need to forcibly remove us from the arena if they are to continue the day’s trial with the other contestants.
“Well done, Riven,” the Mother coos gently.
“Well done?” the same male contestant mocks. “They didn’t do anything, and his magical tantrum broke the illusion.”
“I consider his rule-breaking as a sign of true devotion.” The Maiden blinks her large eyes affectionately at us, head tilting to the side as she considers us.
“An unmistakable sign of devotion, indeed,” the Crone adds, a wicked twinkle in her eyes like she’s cooking something up.
My face heats undeniably. I’m certain even the contestants at the very top of the arena can see it.
This isn’t true devotion, at least not for him.
It was instinct. A warrior's drive to protect. “Just for fun, let’s see their heart rates again.”
“Please, let’s not.” But my ask falls on deaf ears when the crystals above us begin to palpitate with the monitoring of our hearts.
“Take your seats,” the Crone all but orders, leaving our heart rate monitors going as the next couple makes their way to the stage.
“My heart rate monitor is basically screaming. Yours is flat as a calm pond again.” I’m trying to tease, but I can hear the hint of annoyance leaking through my voice.
“I’m a trained soldier. Remember, foxhole, staying calm to avoid death?” He waves it off dismissively before grabbing my hand.
“And because I don’t affect you? Right?” I bite out quickly. So quickly, Riven flinches as if slapped. I move quickly up the stairs and slide into a row at the top of the amphitheater beside a gushing Aoife and gobsmacked Noah.
“For their efforts,” the Crone begins, eying the heart rate monitor and looking at the place Riven’s magic broke through hers. “A fifteen.”
“Respectable,” the Maiden adds. “Next time, let’s try not to break the simulation.”
“That was mental!” Aoife giggles. I smile, hoping the perceptive fae woman beside me doesn’t sense the emotion behind my eyes.
“Do you think our challenge will be like that?” Noah’s voice rises an octave. “Because I’ve never fought anything a day in my life.”
“I wouldn’t worry, love.” Aoife turns to calm Noah, leaving Riven and me in our own bubble once more.
He leans in. Too close. Always too close. His voice is soft when he says, “I never said that you didn’t affect me.” He scoots over so that our thighs are touching and our breaths are mingled. “Ask me.”
I can’t.
I can’t know the answer.
Because either way, it will ruin us.
“Don’t,” I warn quietly.
“Don’t what?” Give me hope.
“We should watch the next match.” I peel my eyes from him and try to focus on the labyrinth Angora and her lord have been placed in.
It’s so much easier to see the mechanics of the simulation from the outside. Each decision Angora and Erik make in the arena sends a score between zero and twenty flashing on the crystal above the arena.
They’re walking down a busy city street, complete with non-engaged civilians left and right.
A puddle as wide as the sidewalk appears, and when Erik jumps over it to avoid getting his shoes dirty, a five flashes on the screen above.
The other matches boo as he keeps walking, not helping Angora make it over the puddle herself.
Why couldn’t this have been Riven's and my challenge?
It seems like their challenge is getting over themselves enough to be a thoughtful partner, while Riven had to battle literal monsters. And destroyed the simulation in the process…that’s definitely not going to win us any points with the Moirai.
Maybe we didn’t get a simulation like that because it would be too easy for him. Riven would never be so careless. Thanks to his gentlemanly upbringing, consideration for ladies is second nature to him, especially for those of us he cares about.
Just friends, though.
Don’t overthink it.
My heart picks up again, and I forcefully focus on the contest instead of the heat rippling off the fae male beside me. You’d think, for a shadow fae, he’d be cold and morose, but no—my best friend had to be sunshine incarnate in every way.
Angora gasps when a stranger steps in front of her and tries to steal her purse, yanking it back and forth and yelling. Erik eventually steps in, threatening to call the sheriff on the man if he doesn’t stop and earns a score of 16 for doing so.
Focusing on anything besides Riven is hard enough, but it’s especially challenging with how boring this trial is.
We sit together as the remaining matches compete, other couples rising and falling in the pit below, but I barely see any of it.
I should be watching the spectacle. I should be relieved our turn is over.
Instead, I’m hyperaware of him beside me—the steady warmth of his thigh when his knee brushes mine, the way his laugh settles low in my stomach now instead of bouncing off me like it used to.
This was a bad idea. It was terrible from the start. Fake dating always is when your heart wants something real.
I’m not falling in love.
I’m just…noticing him too much.
My stomach twists like I’m lying.
And that unsettles me more than any trial ever could.