Page 44 of In Violent Waves

Nothing ever seemed to apply to him. It wasn’t because he was closer to Wilder than the others, but the nature of his gift gave him an advantage.

After all these years, Wilder still wasn’t sure how it worked. Sometimes it was so strong, Otto could answer your question before you asked. Sometimes the vision changed in the middle. Wilder thought it had to do with the person’s choice, or maybe the threads of fate were always changing.

That seemed to be the case with Lyra. Fate didn’t quite know what lay in wait for her yet. And that made him even more wary of her.

He’d known as a child what his future would hold. The only son of King Oberon, he would assume the throne when his father ever tired of it. But in the meantime, he would serve his father and their court.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult job. He trained with the guard, was often a liaison to the Mannereds, and completed every other task his father felt was beneath his power as king. And lately, that seemed to be more and more.

He hated the lack of freedom. His decisions weren’t ever his own; his image had to be upheld within his court, and he could never tell his father no. Not that there had been too many times he wanted to.

Although some days he would have preferred to do nothing. To lie on the edge of the Valewood and listen to the ancient willow sing, to paddle through the Three Sisters Swamp with no need to hurry, to take a dip in the ocean for the hell of it.

Lyra lurched and then fell behind him, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Are you alright?” Otto was already at her side.

“It’s these godsdamned boots,” she whined, squeezing them.

Otto shot Wilder a look before turning back to Lyra. “Let me see.”

Lyra froze, biting her lip and shaking her head.

“Let him see,” Wilder ordered.

His concern for her was overwhelming, and he hated it.

With his barked order, Lyra huffed a sigh and began untying her laces. When she pulled the first boot off, his heart sank.

Blood.

Her boot was full of blood. Worn skin down nearly to the bone on her heel and a few of her toes.

“Good gods.” Maelys pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Ridge added.

Lyra shrugged.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wilder asked.

Lyra met his stare head-on.

“You wanted no more delays.”

This was all his fault. His coldness and cruelty had pushed her to this. He was rotten, to his very core, for allowing it.

“What do you need?” he asked, knowing she would know exactly what kind of plant would heal the open wounds.

“Marigold,” she said, looking around. “It’s a yellow flower with?—”

“I know what a marigold is,” Wilder retorted. “Ridge, Otto, help me find some. Maelys, stay with her.”

Wilder didn’t wait for a response before he set off to find her the fucking flowers.

Lyra sat on the edge of the forest trail beside Maelys, who shot her wary glances.

“So you like books?” Maelys asked, breaking up the uncomfortable quiet.