Page 2 of Lore of the Tides

She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer that Grey and Isla had managed to lead the women and children to safety.

She flinched at the memory of betrayal in the garden. He’d betrayed her. Asher had... gods. The truth of who he’d been all along. The lies he’d spun, weaving them around her as though he were a spider—and she’d clung willingly to his web.

“Sleep, for now. Tomorrow, we sail in search ofAuroradel,the Book of Sunbeams.”

He’d mentioned sailing, just before she’d lost consciousness.

And he’d done as promised—that whispered threat. He’d abductedher, absconded with her grimoire, and trapped her in an inescapable prison. She was at his mercy, this stranger, this male whose heart was unknown to her.

A heart that could only be as grim as the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, slowly eating up the sunlight.

She turned, stumbling to the table, gripping the bouquet. She strangled the stems in her hand, not caring that some were barbed with thorns. Though the flowers had wilted, the thorns remained sharp, biting into the soft flesh of her palms. The fog in her mind, the persistent panic—those last few moments in the garden, what had been done to those women, Asher’s betrayal. Each thought dug into her like another thorn.

Lore pressed her face to the opening of the vase and retched.

* * *

Minutes or eons passed before the sound of a lock sliding free clanged through the room, drawing Lore from a labyrinth of wrenching guilt and recrimination. The door made no sound as it arched across the rug. Lore swallowed a bout of nausea at the sight of his form silhouetted in the curved doorway.

She was surprised he’d waited so long.

He wore black fighting leathers shined to a gleam. Two vast wings erupted from his shoulder blades—sleek black-and-gray feathers like those of an eagle, so large they obscured all beyond the door. Where two gorgeous antlers should have sprouted from his head, there were instead short-cropped, shining coils. Where a scar should bisect one eyebrow were smoothly manicured, unmarred brows. And in place of the thoughtful, mischievous face of a grounder, a lower caste of dark fae, the lowly soldier who had abandoned his post to defend, shield, and shelter Lore... was the cold and aloof face of Lord Syrelle.

He strode through the door, his cruel eyes drawn to her straightaway as though he knew exactly where she would be—squeezed into the sliver of space between the bed and the wall.

“Come to gloat?” Lore called as she heaved herself into a standing position. She pressed her hip to the carved siren at the tip of the bedpost; her knees were weak still, and her arms were preoccupied with the vase pressed firmly to her chest. She didn’t dare place it down; the fluidity of the ship was unnatural, and her body rejected the constant fluctuation. Though it wasn’t just motion sickness that had forced her to expel the entire contents of her stomach into the vase; it had to do with him as well.

She was, it seemed, sensitive to treachery.

The glow of the oil lamp cast dancing shadows upon his cheeks, playing with the black-and-gray feathers of his widespread wings. Lore was glad she’d cinched the curtains tightly closed earlier, blocking out the light of day and the bloodcurdling view of continuous blue; she didn’t think she could stomach an uninhibited sight of him. She shifted the vase to one arm, ignoring the sloshing of its contents.

“Mouse,” he breathed.

That term of endearment, spoken by the wrong face, with the wrong timbre.

“Don’t you dare call me that.” The sound of Lore’s palm connecting with Syrelle’s face fractured the room, surprising them both. Syrelle hissed as his face jerked sideways. His hand flew to his cheek, massaging the smooth skin beside his left eye. The nerve of this male—he had the gall to soundrelievedto see her.

Her chest heaved as she gulped in breaths through clenched teeth. Shit. She’d told herself, while she’d waited for him, crouched between the wall and the bed for some semblance of stability... heaving into the vase... to keep her godsdamned head. The easiest way to escape was to play along at first... to not give in to her emotions. Lore shook out her hand. Her palm throbbed. Just as the memory of Asher throbbed.

“I’m glad to see you are awake,” he said, turning back toward her slowly, his dark eyes meeting hers. Rivers of red snaked through the white of his eye. She’d burst a blood vessel. His gaze roamed over her as if checking that she was unharmed, whole, before snagging on the vase clutched to her chest with one arm. The corners of his lips tugged downward into a frown, and his brows knitted together in concern. “You will adjust to being at sea soon enough.”

“I won’t be doing any adjusting. I demand you turn this ship around. Take me home.”

He continued on, as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “I regret having to sedate you these last few days. It was necessary to dose you with solace-root while we arranged our journey. I felt it would be less... difficult for you... to sleep through the preparations.”

Solace-root... that explained the weakness in her legs, the confusion clouding her thoughts. Lore swallowed back a wave of nausea. There was nothing left to expel anyway.

Lore opened her mouth to demand, once more, that Syrelle turn the ship around, when a voice interrupted from the shadowed hallway. “Commander Syrelle, should I inform Lady Coretha that the human has awakened?” A guard, by the looks of her uniform.

Syrelle’s gaze never wavered from Lore’s face even as he addressed the guard behind him. “Of course, Cecil, we must apprise Lady Coretha. But first notify Cook that Lore will be in need of sustenance.”

“But I am to tell the lady straightaway—”

“Cecil, you will first go to the galley, then inform the Lady Coretha.” Syrelle’s tone allowed no room for dispute.

“Yes, of course, Commander.” The guard bowed at the waist before retreating down the hallway, her footsteps imperceptible.

“Commander?”

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