Page 38 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

Even now, part of me feels safe in Rian’s presence. Protected.

That’s a feeling I need to kill.

Because I know what Rian is—what lies behind that handsome face.

He’s danger wrapped in shadow. The ruin I can’t stop reaching for. A trickster. A manipulator.

And if I ever forget that, if I ever let myself want him…

Rian won’t be the one destroyed.

I will.

8

I am weak. And I hate myself for it.

The sun blazes mercilessly above, not a cloud in sight to offer reprieve. Heat radiates off the deck in shimmering waves that distort the air. My arms tremble as I struggle to keep up with Draven’s pace.

Just like in Verdanthia, he doesn’t take it easy on me, but he’s not trying to exhaust me. He pulls back his strikes when his wooden sword collides with mine, and he slows to give me time to adjust to his movements. I know, because I’ve seen the Fae fight.

I know his true skill.

But despite Draven’s accommodations, I’m a panting, sweating mess. My endurance is non-existent. The magic in my chest is stronger today, but still not entirely mended from my first attempt to cure Darius. My healing power can’t strengthen my weak muscles fast enough to stop them from trembling.

It’s pathetic.

“Tighten your core. Raise your arm,” Draven commands, voice steady, breath even.

I grip the pommel of the wood sword he brought all the way from Verdanthia, my palm slick with sweat. Gritting my teeth, I do what he says and clench my abdomen.

I tighten my hold, determined not to embarrass myself by dropping the weapon. Around us, sailors glance our way as they work, some openly curious, others smirking before turning back to their ropes and rigging.

Sweat rolls down my face. I lift my shoulder and wipe the moisture away with my sleeve.

I’m wearing the second set of clothes Juniper packed for me. The blouse is loose but firmly tucked into the waist of my skirt, secured by a belt, but the breathable fabric sticks to my body like a second skin. The breeze today is sporadic. Coupled with the rising temperatures the farther south we travel, my energy is fading fast.

Draven assesses my stance then nods. “Good. Now, attack.”

I swallow my groan and lunge.

My quaking arm swings the sword toward his ribs. He parries easily, our wooden swords colliding with a sharp crack.

“Good. Again.”

I swing. He blocks.

“Again.”

The rhythm builds: strike, block, pivot, repeat. Every muscle in my body screams. Every breath burns my throat. The deck tilts beneath my boots, and I nearly lose my footing.

Draven’s words are minimal. He’s relentless. The sort of teacher I need. But I’m just so damn tired.

When one of his counterattacks sends a jolt up my arm, my hand muscles spasm. The sword hits the deck.

I moan. “I need a break.”

A faint smirk curves his mouth. “I was waiting to see how long it would take.”