Page 145 of In Violent Waves

Where she belonged—with the other monsters. She didn’t deserve the kindness that the land had offered her, and it was killing her.

Wilder sighed through his nose, and Lyra raked her gaze across him, trying to find the source of his discomfort.

When his eyes met hers, she looked at her book as if she hadn’t been looking at him at all. The words blurred together, and her chest tightened with each passing moment.

The castle gates came into view, and Wilder thumped a fist on the ceiling of the coach.

When the wheels creaked to a stop, he flung open the door and stepped outside.

“Truce over,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him.

Lyra’s eyes burned, and she buried her head in her hands.

She had screwed this all up—royally. And it hurt.

It hurt like the slicing of her tail into two legs. It hurt like her missing the sea, but feeling like she no longer belonged. It hurt like her magic, siphoning off her life.

The carriage proceeded, but instead of passing through the castle gates, it took the long way around again. It looked like she wouldn’t be getting to see the city after all.

She couldn’t find it in her heart to care. She had cared too much already, and it had brought her misery.

Lyra gave herself time to grieve. Not a long enough time, but more time than she gave herself for the ocean. She reached out to touch the water dripping down her cheeks.

A single tear clung to her fingertip and then fell onto her emerald gown. She studied it, the water that sprang from her eyes, reminding her of all that she had lost.

As the carriage pulled up to the castle at last, Lyra wiped her tears away and shoved the rest of her anguish down.

She had a bargain to uphold, and she needed to get to work.

On the morning of Ostara, Lyra stood in the center of the training ground, facing the man-shaped target made of wood and straw ten yards away.

Maelys crouched down beside her and grasped a handful of dirt before letting it slip from her fingers back to the ground. The wind blew some of it at an angle as it slipped from her hand.

The dagger Lyra gripped in her fingertips was surprisingly warm, probably because of the number of times she had thrown it already.

“Breathe …” Maelys ordered as Lyra’s breath came out in quick pants.

“I’m trying,” Lyra growled back.

“No—you’re panting. Breathe.”

Lyra’s eyes slid closed, and she inhaled. The tension left her shoulders, and her arms relaxed.

“Picture your target and only your target. Don’t let those animals distract you,” Maelys ordered.

And they were distracting. Dust and Oak squared off with their fists wrapped in a thick fabric, but that did nothing to muffle the sound of them pummeling each other.

Ridge and Otto battled with wooden swords. The thwacking sound of wood on wood echoed around the space. And Wilder—Wilder stayed perched on the stone wall of the fence, surveying everyone and everything around them. It wasn’t the others that distracted her.

No, it was the glare from the male she missed.

Wilder snorted at what Maelys had said, and Lyra flicked her attention to him. He returned her stare with a scowl. The scent of the purple flowers wrapped around her and softened the usual dirt and grass aroma.

Wind whipped a strand of dark hair across Wilder’s face, and a cloud floated across the sun, casting the ground in momentary shadow. It hadn’t been the same between them since the disastrous ruin of their truce.

Lyra still couldn’t stomach the feelings she shoved down every morning. She missed him—exceedingly so. And he did everything in his power to piss her off.

“Focus, Lyra,” Maelys said, drawing Lyra’s attention back to the target. “Pull back and throw it.”