Page 183 of In Violent Waves

Lyra gripped him tighter.

“Is not.”

The castle of Queen Titania was that of legend. Wilder tried to see this place as Lyra might. This is where the fables came from. Glittering white stone walls showcased art that spanned millennia.

Their reflections shone on the polished floor, and their footsteps echoed before they stepped onto the crimson runner that led down the main hall.

Lyra moved slowly, gazing from painting to painting. A sculpture of a winged woman stood in the center of the wide hallway. The carved wings were so thin you could see through the granite. It was the epitome of feminine grace.

Their procession down the hallway halted as Lyra spied the statue. She stopped, and her hand trembled as she reached out to graze a fingertip down the stone of the cascading gown.

Silver lined her eyes as she stared, enraptured. He had felt like that once, too. A well of emotions was bubbling up to swallow him whole. Wilder recalled the first moment he saw the sculpture. It had almost brought him to his knees.

“It’s breathtaking,” Lyra whispered.

Wilder studied each minute reaction that played across Lyra’s face. “It is.”

Her eyes flashed to his, and a slow, genuine smile tugged up the corner of her lips.

He was done for.

His reaction to the sculpture hadn’t been as visceral as his body’s reaction to her smile. The world stopped spinning, and he balled his hands into fists to keep them at his sides instead of where he wanted them—on her.

Footsteps resonated down the hall, pulling her attention from him.Wilder felt the absence immediately, like a cool breeze against bare skin.

“Son of Oberon,” a masculine voice boomed. It was loud, like the crack of a whip.

“Consort of Titania,” Wilder replied.

Lyra froze; even her chest stopped moving with her breathing as she took in the elf standing before them.

Baelwyn wore a robe of silver, like moonlight had spilled from the sky. Dark thread embroidered the sleeves with a forest scene of grazing stags alongside unicorns. He looked to be everything you’d expect from an elvish king consort, from the top of his long white hair wrapped in a wreath of ivy to the long ash staff he walked with.

“Ah, and this must be the Princess Lyra.” Baelwyn shifted his green eyes to Lyra.

There wasn’t malice in his gaze, but Wilder shifted closer to shield her from it. Baelwyn was a kind male and had never given Wilder an inkling of ill will, but those ancient eyes saw things most did not.

Lyra bobbed her head with respect before holding her head up high. “I am.”

“Such violent waves we’ve seen since your arrival.”

His words echoed around the silent hall, and Lyra shifted towards Wilder.

“Violent waves?” she asked, a shade quieter than he thought possible.

“Great violence, indeed. They batter the cliffs like fists on a door.”

Lyra swallowed audibly and looked at Wilder.

“He will come for me …” she whispered.

“Your father?”

Her head nodded of its own volition, and she trapped her bottom lip between her teeth.

Wilder searched her eyes. She had wanted to return to the sea. Had bargained for a deal to return to the water. So why did she seem so reluctant to be found?

“The queen awaits,” Baelwyn murmured, interrupting Wilder’s scrutiny.