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Which was what she wanted.
Wasn’t it?
She had felt so certain, wading through the water. Ever since walking out ofRoundhay Park, she’d known what she had to do.
But now that she was here, she felt her conviction falter.
She snapped her eyes away from the bird. Nothing had changed. She just needed a minute to catch her breath—to find her bearing.
Her thoughts seemed so disjointed.
Careless of the burgeoning current, she dropped to sit on the landing.
A crab skittered across the first stone step, before vanishing into a crevice. She didn’t allow herself to think about Kam, about the way she’d stop to point out the crustacean. How she’d know its scientific name, and ramble off a list of facts, a testament to her love of all things aquatic.
No, she couldn’t think about that now. The time for that had passed.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she tried to slow her breathing.
Her life was over.
Henrik had been right. She was nothing but a coward. A coward who ran away from everything.
Across the narrow strait, the Mumbles Pier glistered in the sunlight. She scanned the quiet jetty to where a pair of silhouettes stood, their fishing rods cast over the railing: a man and a child. How many afternoons had she and her dad stood on that same platform? It was where he’d taught her to tie a clinch knot, to bait a hook, to reel in a lurking flounder.
Her gaze trailed to her thumb, where she still had a fine white scar from mishandling a knife while prying open the shell of a blue mussel.
“Bydd gryf!” her dad had gently reprimanded when the crimson well of blood had threatened to spring a gush of tears. “A dragon does not cry.”
Bydd gryf—be strong.
So many times she’d repeated the phrase, his voice an echo in her mind.
At the start of a race. In the last steps before the finish line. On long, exhausting training rides.
And today she had failed him.
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the carousel of voices. Her father. Henrik. Kam. Seren.
Ddraig Fach.
Drückeberger.
You can’t think about anyone but yourself.
You promised me, Dillon!
Desperate for silence, she slammed her fist against the jagged stone of the landing, sending a blaze of pain up her forearm, the white heat startling her, dragging her back to reality.
Everything that had seemed so clear before no longer felt certain.
She stared at the blood dripping down her knuckles.
How could one moment of weakness truly discount a lifetime of courage?
It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t true.
Somewhere, a voice of rationale—a voice of reason—begged to be heard, fighting to reassure her: she wasn’t a coward. She’d given everything she had. Over and over.
