Chapter Twenty-Two
POPPY
“It’s weird that we’re invited to a formal brunch,” Riven says, tucking his hands into his shorts. They’re so sinfully well-worn that it should be illegal. “It’s been an every-man-for-himself meal every other day we’ve been here.”
Riven has excellent pattern recognition, something I learned about a year ago when our linen napkins at the Foxhole started going missing and he noticed that the same shady regular was there each time one disappeared.
Long story short, I bailed Riven out of jail that night with my tip money, but we did get the napkins back.
All of that to say, I trust his suspicion.
I’m prone to think a brunch invite is simply that, but if he has half a mind to be suspicious, I trust him.
“What’s the worst thing they throw at us?” We’ve been forced to display intimacy, display our literal hearts for all to see, and fight beasts in the dark. Whatever it is, it won’t rattle me. I swear it.
“Psychological torture. Or dance lessons. I’m hoping for torture,” Riven replies flatly. He holds a hand out to me, helping me step over the same fallen log they haven’t cleared in the days we’ve been here. “But I promise, if it breathes, bleeds, or overtalks at lunch, I will handle it.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you,” he replies, which he means sincerely, but somehow, my mind takes it as more. A shiver rolls down my spine as I try not to think of the implications.
Thankfully, the beach club comes into view, serving as a distraction.
Tables set with white linen atop polished wood floors await us inside, and sunlight flashing off crystal glasses makes it feel like nothing in the world could possibly go wrong here.
Riven tenses ever so slightly. I know what he’s thinking. It’s quiet here…too quiet.
From a distance, it looks idyllic. Breezy curtains tied back with gold cords. Long buffet tables draped in pale linens. Champagne already sweating in flutes. Musicians tucked beneath gauzy awnings.
Too pristine.
Too prepared.
Something is off, and as we step closer, I notice it.
There are twice as many tables as there should be.
Small, round, intimate. Each was dressed in white linen so crisp it could cut. Each set includes delicate porcelain, polished silver, and exactly two chairs.
No more. No less.
Couples slow as they approach, murmurs rippling through the gathering like a current. No one says it out loud, but we’re all counting.
Two chairs per table.
Too many tables.
The wind lifts the edge of a napkin and blows delicately enough on the crystal glassware that it starts to chime softly.
Riven guides me to a nearby bench just outside the dining room, resting a hand lightly on my back. I inhale sharply. This is the version of him that knows how to perform in public, and it resurfaces so easily.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmurs low enough that it almost feels private, “if this ends with polite conversation and fruit salad, I’m filing a complaint.” He helps settle me into the seat, and I force a light chuckle.
“Can we join you?” Aoife asks, Noah lingering behind her with two steaming mugs balanced carefully in his hands.
“Of course!” I scoot over on the long, cushioned bench beside Riven, the ocean breeze drifting through, rattling the hanging shell garlands overhead. Somewhere down the beach, waves crash softly against the shore, lazy beneath the morning sun.
Noah settles into the bench with a grateful sigh while Aoife immediately curls herself against his side like she belongs there.
Disgustingly adorable.
“So,” Riven asks, stirring honey into the tea Noah had handed me, “how was your time with Erik last night?” Noah had stopped by to invite Riven for a drink, but I think he was too drained from the trial to even consider it.
Noah snorts. Actually snorts into his coffee. “Lord Blowhard?”
Riven nearly chokes on his drink beside me, coughing into his fist while I laugh and lean in to speak to Aoife conspiratorially. “I see what you like about him.”
Aoife beams at Noah like he personally hung the stars over the island.
Fate. They’re nauseating.
Then the realization strikes me, and I whip to Riven. “Wait. Erik was invited?” Shocking, honestly. I can’t see Noah liking him at all.
“He heard me invite Riven. He was walking by as I left your bungalow.”
“My shadows heard the whole thing.” Riven lifts the mug lazily, sunlight catching the gold in his hair. “Sorry for abandoning you to his pompous ass. Feels cruel, in hindsight.”
“The apology is appreciated,” Noah says solemnly. “I survived, but barely.”
Aoife rolls her eyes fondly. “He spent the entire evening talking about his family estates and noble bloodline, which would almost be impressive if he hadn’t picked someone who studies the peerage for fun.”
Noah grins over the rim of his mug, eyes glittering with mischief. “His family hasn’t held meaningful influence in decades. Their manor house is practically collapsing into a beet field somewhere north of Brim Hollow.”
I blink. “You’re joking.”
“Oh, no,” Noah says with alarming delight. “They’re technically nobles, but wealthy? Fate, no. Their estate is in the middle of a farming village so remote, I’m fairly sure the cows outrank the townspeople.”
My hand flies to my mouth to muffle a laugh.
“And he’s here acting like he owns half the realm?” Riven asks beside me, voice threaded with disbelief.
“Apparently,” Noah says dryly. “Honestly, I almost admire the commitment to the performance. I assume the lavish townhouse he mentioned is rented, but eventually, the illusion has to crack.”
A laugh escapes Riven, low and surprised, but when I glance at him, something in his expression shifts.
Not smugness.
Not satisfaction.
Something quieter.
For a moment, his gaze drifts toward the sea, honey-gold eyes distant beneath the sunlight. There was a time he would’ve enjoyed hearing this. I know there was. Angora hurt him more deeply than he lets anyone realize, and some bruises leave bitterness behind long after the pain fades.
But watching him now, I don’t think he’s bitter anymore.
I think he’s sad for her.
The realization settles strangely in my chest.
Because that softness—hidden beneath all his swagger and filthy jokes and careless grins—is the exact thing that makes him dangerous to me.
Beside me, his knee brushes mine, and I shudder.
Fate, this fake relationship is going to kill me.
“Someone should probably tell her,” Riven mutters finally.
Aoife’s expression softens. “The Moirai will.”
“After the final ceremony,” Noah explains. “They won’t allow matches to continue under false pretenses. Once the last roll happens, every secret comes out.” That’s nice of them. I guess I never made it far enough to see that happen.
Riven whistles low beneath his breath. “That sounds emotionally catastrophic.”
“It absolutely is,” Aoife says cheerfully.
I laugh, sunlight warming my skin as the sea breeze tangles my hair, and Riven glances at me like the sound caught his attention against his will.
For a heartbeat, the entire island seems to blur at the edges.
And not for the first time since arriving here, I have the terrifying thought that maybe the most dangerous thing on this island isn’t Fate.
Maybe it’s him.
I huff a breath that is almost a laugh.
But before any of us can change the subject—
The air shifts. The breeze unnaturally still.
“Do not get too comfortable in your seats.” The Moirai appear between one blink and the next, the glitter of magic settling around their ankles.
The Crone smiles. “We would hate for you to sit with the wrong person.” Silence crashes over the beach club, and suddenly, every empty chair and fruit tart feels like a threat.
“Surprise challenge,” the Mother croons, voice echoing into the warm wind. “Today, you will test not strength nor skill…but restraint.” A pause follows, and the crowd hangs on the silence as it did on her words.
“You claim devotion,” I swear the Crones' eyes pass over Riven and me and pause as she says this, “you claim connection. Very well.” Her eyes gleam. “Each of you will dine at this midday…escorted by a former love.”
A ripple of gasps follows as my throat feels like it’s being strangled. Aoife and Noah stand, stepping closer as if they’ve misheard.
“Survive jealousy and resist temptation,” the Maiden says scandalously. “And return to your chosen partner unchanged…or maybe you won’t return at all.” She winks, and a few guys in the back high-five. I’m glad someone is excited about this challenge, because I am not.
Beside me, Riven snorts. “Avoid being jealous of an ex of yours?” He threads his fingers behind his head in a show of cocky posturing. “Easy. I don’t get jealous of losers.”
“Fair,” I sigh. I wonder who it’ll be. Another past contestant of the Festival?
The Moirai would love that, I’m sure. Why not embarrass the poor witch who’s been rebuffed by love not once but thrice in their presence?
“Maybe jealousy won’t get you, but temptation might.
” Despite my intelligence, jealousy twists in my gut, making the croissants on the table look utterly vomit-inducing.
“If memory serves, you were very…” I pause, looking for the right word that won’t make me sound like a raging, jealous maiden after his heart, “enamored with some of your beguiling exes.” I tried, and somehow, it still sounded bitchy. Well, A for effort, I suppose.
“I treat my exes like Vikings handle funerals,” Riven says cryptically, eyes locked onto the closed doors the Moirai are slowly making their way to. I can only assume that once they open it, the ex-lovers will appear.
“Meaning?” I ask, causing him to snap his eyes to me. His arms are still laced behind his head, causing his shirt to lift up and reveal a sliver of tanned, toned abdomen. A smattering of hair and pulsing veins decorate the space.
Slut.
Me. Not him. Coven curse my thoughts right now.