Page 33 of In Violent Waves

A thin, nearly sheer pair of bottoms that would barely fit her by the looks of them, and then a strange top that she assumed was for her breasts due to the similarity in shape.

Lyra tossed her new garments onto the bed and pulled off her boots before untying Wilder’s cloak. She draped it at the foot of the bed before ripping off what remained of her dress.

It was sad, really. The stitching was so elaborate, the ruffles and pleats so exquisite, and she had ruined it. She traced a flower that was stitched onto the hem before throwing the dress onto the floor. She stood there naked and looked down at her bare legs.

They were shapely, not too thin nor too thick. She pointed her toes, and the muscles on her thighs bulged. Running a hand down them, she smiled. Lyra liked her legs. They were pretty.

A commotion in the hall had her covering her naked flesh with a hand.

She froze.

That was not how that felt before. She peered down at herself. Why was it in the front? She looked behind her, and her eyes widened. Her backside had not been that supple when she had a tail.

What kind of magic was this?

Another clamber outside the door had her scurrying over to the basin. She needed to hurry before Wilder decided that was enough time and burst back in.

Lyra dunked the small towel in the basin. The water was clear and lightly scented with fresh herbs. She wiped off her face and then the rest of her body.

Leaving the water in the basin cloudy with dirt, she scrubbed from her skin. When the water was no longer usable, she sighed, already missing it against her skin. It had been a comfort to feel the water and not the grime of the land.

With the undergarments in their assumed positions, she tugged the top over her head before grabbing the pants and slipping them on one leg at a time.

The pants did in fact stretch to fit her perfectly. Even if they were snug, suctioning to her skin. They highlighted every curve of her legs and backside.

The top fell right at the top of the pants, and when she moved, a sliver of her stomach showed. She was tugging the shirt down to cover the exposed skin fully when there was a knock on the door.

“Are you done?”

“Mhm,” she called.

The door swung open, and Wilder appeared.

She waited for him to comment on her new clothes, but he didn’t.

His face was twisted somewhere between a grimace and a snarl. But he froze when he saw her. His eyes flared a fraction before he tucked whatever emotion he had felt back behind his carefully crafted mask. He kicked the door closed and ripped the cloak off the bed.

A pillow was tucked under his arm. Lyra watched as he threw it onto the floor between the bed and the door and lay down. He still hadn’t said a word to her, but his actions were clear; it was time to sleep.

Quilts of varying patterns covered blue floral sheets. It was quite pretty for an old tavern such as this. As she slipped beneath the sheets and quilts, a sigh escaped her.

The bed was fluffy and held her tenderly as she settled in. It was strange. Nothing had ever held her before.

In Atlantis, the constant ebb and flow of the ocean kept her hovering just a hairsbreadth over the giant shell she used as a bed. Even with her multitude of kelp blankets to weigh her down, it was never enough and felt more smothering than anything.

It probably didn’t help that the shell resembled the large mouths of ancient sea monsters.

Wilder cleared his throat, and all the candles in the room were snuffed out. Had he done that? What kind of elf magic was that?

A deluge of questions bubbled up, but she tamped them down. They hadn’t spoken since her outburst with magic, and she doubted he would be willing now.

Lyra closed her eyes, inhaling the lingering smoke from the candles. She hoped sleep would take her soon. She’d welcome any kind of reprieve from the awkwardness that was growing between them.

But sleep was a fickle bitch.

Wilder lay as still as his body would allow. Which was very, very still. His chest didn’t move as he breathed through his nose. He was going to kill Otto. What the fuck had he been thinking, having Maelys pack an outfit like that for her?

Calling her Legs would be torture now because all he would ever think about would be the perfection of hers. And good gods.