Page 80 of In Violent Waves

“You. Die.”

She closed her eyes and sucked a breath down. He squatted down so that they were face-to-face. “Suit yourself, but if you’d ever like your freedom, you’ll follow my orders.”

He dangled that word in front of her like a carrot.

Lyra took the bait. Pulling herself off the ground with forced slowness, she glared at him.

“Tell me how many laps, first.”

He sighed through his nose. “Start with five.”

He was trying to kill her.

That surely had been the plan all along. Kidnap her, subject her to endless suffering on the way here, and then a slow, torturous death by running.

Her breath sawed out of her. Excruciating white-hot flames licked up her throat with every inhale and exhale. The spaces between her ribs were ripping apart, and it felt as if something was piercing her side.

“That’s only three laps!”

She was going to kill him. She didn’t know how or when, but he would pay for this.

Wilder stood smirking at her by the table Ridge had set up. The giant copper pitcher teased her with each pass by the table. Condensation had dripped down its side. The sweet temptation of cold water.

When she passed by him again, he looked her over. She was sure she looked close to death. Her skin had leaked, and her hair clung to it. Lyra wet her lips and then coughed raggedly at the breath that stuck in her dry throat.

“Never mind. Just stop. Get some water,” Wilder said, holding out a hand to stop her.

If she wasn’t mistaken, sympathy had softened his gaze.

Lyra bent over at the waist, resting her hands on her knees, and panting.

“Breathe in through your nose,” Wilder ordered her. “And out through your mouth.”

She listened to him despite herself, and it helped.

“Here, drink.” He handed her a tin of water.

It was cold, blissfully frigid, and a relief to her blistering throat.

“You’re more out of shape than I had thought,” Wilder muttered.

“She has had legs for less than two weeks,” Maelys added. “What did you expect?”

“Did you not do any kind of physical activity before this?” Ridge asked.

Lyra shook her head. “Not really.”

But that wasn’t completely true. She had learned how to wield a dagger. As a matter of fact, she missed her favorite dagger. She had planned to kill Drystan with it once she returned.

Drystan.

She wanted to vomit, thinking his name. Her training to kill him had been effortless compared to this. It was centeredon her catching him unaware. Specifically, right after they had consummated their marriage, when he would be at his weakest. They had never planned for any alternatives, like her having to fight him.

Now that she was thinking about it, it was a terrible plan. What if he had injured her and it had become difficult for her to slit his throat? Then what would have been the plan? He wasn’t very intelligent, but even she didn’t think he would be stupid enough to fall asleep and make himself vulnerable around her.

Lyra set the tin back on the table, and looked back at Wilder. Maybe training with him wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It would help her learn how to defend herself, and she would become stronger.

Merfolk would never have allowed such a thing. It would be scandalous to them. She would become stronger and capable of fending off attackers. Lyra relished that thought.