Page 160 of In Violent Waves

“It's your first time celebrating the holiday,” Wilder clarified.

She had told him already that she had never celebrated the holiday. And he couldn’t understand why she was phrasing it that way now.

Lyra averted her eyes and stared at the elves that walked past the entrance of their quiet alley.

Wilder grabbed her chin to make her meet his eyes.

“Are you telling me you walked into the Venus intending to lose your virginity?”

She glared with the same ferocity he had seen in thunderstorms.

“Yes,” she spat.

Wilder groaned and pressed his forehead against hers. He hadn’t known she was intact. She had told him in the carriage that she had experience.

“You can’t.”

Lyra shoved against his chest. “You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do with my own body.”

“You are correct.”

Lyra floundered for words, not at all expecting him to concede.

“You can do whatever you want with your own body, but take it from someone who has experience in these matters: your first time should not be a quick fuck at a pleasure hall with a male who’s paid to be there.”

“And what should it be?” Lyra asked with a timidity that made his chest ache.

Wilder couldn’t help himself and took a step closer to her, brushing a wayward lock of hair out of her face.

“It should be with someone who cares about you. Who would take all of your fears and desires into consideration and devote their time to your pleasure. Someone who would worship you.”

Lyra looked at his lips before gazing into his eyes.

“I don’t know anyone who cares about me.”

And it felt like a punch to the gut. She wasn’t wrong—he had made that clear.

“Please,” he whispered. “Give it time.” He took a step back.

Lyra rested her head against the stone wall. “Time is not something I have, Princeling. Thanks to your father.”

The tension that had been building between them turned to ice. The sheer fabric of her dress and her position leaning against the wall made the flesh below her left breast and the scar that was there glaringly visible. A gnarled, angry red scar the length of his finger.

“What is that?” he asked.

His mind was emptied of all thoughts except fury.

“Are you an imbecile? It’s another scar,” she sneered, her fury entwining with his.

“Who did that to you?” Wilder’s voice was like ice, and for the first time since his youth, he lost control of his magic.

A whirlwind spun through the alley.

Lyra’s hair whipped in a chaotic tangle around her face, and the straps of her sheer gown fell off her shoulders.

“Wilder—stop,” she pleaded, looking around. “It’s an old scar. I was a child.”

“Who touched you?” he roared over the straight-line winds that pushed him closer to her.