Page 112 of In Violent Waves

Lyra and Maelys began stretching, and Wilder tried to avert his eyes. But her hair blew around her face in the breeze, and she closed her eyes, tipping her face up to the clear sky.

His mother was right; there was an innocence to her. He had noticed it when she had smelled the flowers or marveled at the birds in flight. Not a second of her time on land had been taken for granted. Even though she claimed it had all been against her will.

Queen Aine sighed and watched as they broke away from stretching, and Lyra was attempting to draw the string back on a bow.

Dust and Oak were now standing beside Maelys and giving Lyra instructions.

They had been at this for the last two days. Wilder had picked up exactly what was hindering her from pulling the string back, but the others hadn’t. They said pleasant words of encouragement and clapped when she pulled it back an inch.

But Lyra was a fire that needed to burn.

Their kindness was water dousing her flames. She hadn’t been raised with kindness; therefore, she didn’t know how to react to it.

She needed air to fan her flames—hot air.

Queen Aine winced when Lyra’s fingers slipped off the bowstring, and it slapped her forearm.

A bright red welt bloomed on her porcelain skin, but it was the silver scars on her biceps that Wilder noticed when she held her arm up to look.

There wasn’t a thought in his mind, only the roaring of blood in his ears. He stalked past his mother and her retinue and across the grounds.

“I have it,” Maelys said as he approached.

His glower silenced her.

Gripping Lyra’s arm, he turned her biceps towards him to get a better look at the silver scars.Talons.Talons had left those on her flesh.

“Who did this?” he growled. Lyra tugged on her arm and glared at him.

“It’s none ofyourbusiness,” she spat back, ripping her arm from his grip and darting her eyes around at the people gathered.

She had been trying to hide her scars, and he had pointed them out in front of everyone. He was a fool. A stupid, thoughtless fool.

“Pick up the bow.” She flinched at his tone, but obeyed. “Grip it tightly.”

“Wilder, she’s been—” Oak started.

“Silence.”

Oak’s head lowered as he pressed his lips together.

Lyra trembled; the ferocity coming off of Wilder in waves was alarming her.

“You pick up that bow and pull the gods damn string back. Stop fucking about. You’re not weak or helpless. If you don’t learn how to defend yourself, you will end up with more scars, oryou will die.”

Her lip trembled, but there was a storm building in her emerald eyes, and the way she clenched her teeth seemed to staunch the fear coursing through her.

Fury pumped through her now, and he could smell it. It shifted her scent from the ocean to something darker, like tempestuous storms.

Lyra closed her eyes and pulled on the string.

“You are not weak,” he said. The string came back farther. “You are not helpless.” Farther and farther she pulled it, letting her anger give her strength.

“Let go,” he whispered.

She did.

The arrow flew, thudding right outside the lines on the target. She hadn’t even been close to the bullseye, but that wasn’t his goal. His only goal had been to get her to pull the fucking string back.