Learning how to pick locks had been a dreadful experience, but she couldn’t bust down every door. The department used to have an old locksmith who volunteered with them. He found amusement in locking them in his homemade-lock-breaking-training contraption. Amaris may have cursed each time she’d been locked in there, but she was thankful now. After another minute or two, the mechanism turned, and the door shifted. A single push swung it open.
With her knife in hand, she approached the steps, prepared to battle her way out. The moon’s light was her guide, allowing her vision to adjust to the darkness as she crept up the stairs and through the gate. The wind bristled through her hair, the clouds moving at a rapid speed, guarding and revealing the moon in bursts, but her eyes caught above. What should’ve been a dark sky with only a few stars was a beautiful arrangement of constellations and a vividly bright moon. She rubbed her eyes. Not a single crater marked its surface.
Her heart sped up. She leaned against the wall, digging her nails into the stone to fend off the panic. Nothing about the last twenty-four hours made a lick of sense, but she couldn’t stay and attempt to decipher the shit fest.
With her back to the wall, she moved around the corner. The wind continued to blow a scent she hadn’t experienced in years. It brought a swarm of memories to light—her father standing her on a surfboard and her mother in the light of a campfire.
Propelling herself forward, she lunged into a full sprint. Her breaths were loud, coming in short bursts as her legs burned and a coppery taste seeped into her mouth. She was exhausted but couldn’t let it stop her. A force drove her forward, whether it be adrenaline or fear, but she kept running. She sprinted through the arch. No one chased after her, but she careened forward and toppled into the sand.
She brushed the particles from her face, rubbing the grit between her fingertips. It wasn’t the same arch. With the castle to her back, she peeredout into the vast darkness. A wide expanse of long grass grew in the sand around her. She went to turn back, but the rolling of the surf was a chorus in her ears.
It couldn’t be. The distinct crashing of waves was no stranger to her. It pulled at her chest, calling her to the beach. The next wave hit. The warm pull within her chest grew, and it was as if the sand latched onto her feet and tugged her closer.
She returned her knife to the confines of her boot and squished her fingers through the granules. A single breath held back her hesitation. Amaris hadn’t stepped foot in the ocean since she’d been rescued on a nearby shore the night of the shipwreck.
She didn’t know how it was possible, but the ocean was here. A louder crash erupted, and a force had her stepping toward the powerful and turbulent current rolling up the shore. She dragged her hand down her face. What if she wasn’t in a hospital bed? What would that mean? She sucked in a breath and dared a step closer to the powerful body of water before her. She needed to see it with her own eyes, to feel that it wasn’t an anomaly. A wave misted her face. She paused but licked the salt from her lips. It was real.
Amaris took one more step, but before another wave could send its droplets over her, arms wrapped around her neck. Her nails dug into her assailant’s leather coat, but they only brought her to the ground and strengthened their grip.
Pinned in the sand, breathless, and on the verge of losing consciousness, Amaris took one more look at the ocean coming up to meet her before she passed out.
Chapter 10
Theo
Theo sat withhis knees spread on either side of the toilet as his stomach heaved again, the contents climbing his throat. Wiping the edge of his lip with the back of his hand, he sat back on his heels.
He hung his head, praying to the gods to rid him of the nightmares, the torment, or at least his headache. His fingers brushed against the cut on his forehead. Thankfully, it’d scabbed over in the night. He draped the short strands over it and leaned back over the toilet as another bout of nausea churned in his stomach.
There was a knock on the washroom door. His shoulders sagged as he eyed the latch secured in place.
“Theo,” Gris called from the other side, “you’ve ignored two summonses from servants. We’re going to be late.”
Theo flushed the evidence of his dread. He lifted the latch and cracked the door. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Did you not wash your hands?” She crossed her arms, settling her gaze on the dry porcelain sink.
He rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated groan as he turned on thefaucet and eyed her through the crack, showing her the hard scrubbing of his fingers. Gris wasn’t satisfied. She never was. Theo opened the door completely and stepped into his room in nothing but his undershorts and a lose sleep shirt. Gris had seen him hundreds of times in this manner during the war, but even though her tastes lay elsewhere, he still scoured the floor desperately looking for a clean shirt.
Gris drew the navy-blue curtains open to flourish the room in its natural light. Theo averted his eyes from the sun attempting to blind him as he went about his room and assessed the cleanliness level of various shirts and trousers to pick something appropriate for the meeting with his father.
Now that he was home, he could sport what he wished to. After wearing nothing but his uniform for years, he was eager for something else. They all were. Gris even wore a pair of black leather trousers and a matching vest.
“Here.” Gris stood with a cotton shirt hanging from her finger. “You could try grabbing one hanging in the wardrobe.”
Theo snatched the clean shirt from her and stepped into the washroom to change. He peeled off his sweat-soaked sleep shirt and let it fall in a heap on the floor. The chill of a breeze pricked the hairs along his back. He was exposed. He hastily dressed before returning to his bedchamber to secure his sword and dagger at his hip.
Yesterday’s events played in his mind, but each thought brought a stronger pound to his head. He settled on the edge of his bed, pulling back his covers to hide the sweat line seeping into his sheets.
“Why does it smell like musty socks in here?”
Gris wrinkled her nose and began tossing dirty clothes in a small basket set beside his wardrobe. He eyed his disaster of a room. Slowly, he was turning into Adelaide. His sister had the messiest bedchamber, with clothes discarded across every piece of furniture and her blankets rumpled under her bed.
He used to take pride in keeping the space tidy, but it was a chore to keep it up. He’d banned any servant from entering his room since he returned from the war, but apparently, they were well-needed. His desk was piled with old battle plans and letters he’d yet to return. Even his personal bookshelf was bursting and spilling its contents onto the floor. Stacks of books piled around the bookshelf, and smaller tomes were shoved into nooks and crannies.
“Must be my species.” He sent Gris a flat smirk, but she wasn’t impressed and instead sauntered toward the door.
“Let’s go before your father and Bennet have a fit.”
