Page 60 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

I bolt upright, coughing and sputtering. My vision blurs. I blink over and over, and it takes several seconds to realize what’s different about my surroundings.

I’m still bouncing on an endless blue ocean, but a makeshift tent has been erected overhead.

Two sheathed swords are tied to the oarlock on either side of me. A black tunic stretches between them, one sleeve anchored to the back of the dinghy with a gleaming silver dagger.

I reach up and run my fingertips over the soft material just a few inches above my head. Then, like a moth to a flame, my gaze drops and finds Rian.

My mouth goes dry.

I’d glimpsed his impressive physique back in the forest clearing, and again in the ship’s cabin, but right now, with his olive-toned skin glistening with sweat, the sun’s rays shining down on every hard line etched into his naked torso, my heart skips a beat.

Light strikes his hair, revealing purplish highlights. His biceps, abs, and pecs flex as he leans back and pulls the oar.

Every inch of Rian is perfection, and the assertion that Fae were crafted by the Old Gods in their image has never been more believable.

His eyes shift to meet mine. I drop my chin.

Stop, Elara.

This lack of self-control is nothing short of irritating. I need to get it together. Now.

Resolved, I reach for my satchel and retrieve the diary from my bundle of clothes.

Rian’s lingering stare heats my cheeks, but he doesn’t speak. Likely because Silas sleeps on the bench between us. The scholarly Fae’s arms are crossed, his long legs bent to stay within the boat. Quiet snores rise into the air with every inhale.

Ignoring the prince, I open the book, careful to angle the pages so Rian can’t see, and flip to the entry after the writer revealed her father is of royal blood. Which means so is she.

Is this female Rian’s aunt, perhaps? Or maybe a great-great-grandmother?

I have no sense of when this text was written, other than that it was written before the Shadow Wars began.

But after seeing Port City and learning of Sea Fae, Mountain Fae, and Virendrell… There's so much of the past I haven't been taught. There’s so much more to learn.

And I’m determined to do so.

The Third Day of the Mother’s Twinning Moon

Father failed to mention that the esteemed guest we’ve been preparing to host is none other than the heir to the human throne.

And that he is incredibly handsome.

I wish I had taken greater care with the gown Mother insisted I wear. The lavender silk is beautiful, of course, but it’s too soft. Too girlish.

I do not want the prince to see me as a girl. I have lived twenty summers. Young, perhaps, by my kind’s standards, but grown in every way that matters.

And the moment I saw the prince standing among his fellow travelers, tall and composed, my heart skipped a beat.

I could not breathe.

Could not move.

Could not look away.

And when he smiled at me, my soul sang.

The prince is human. I am not. This pull should not exist.

Yet as I write this from my chambers, the memory of his eyes remains, burned bright behind my lids. I am burdened with the quiet, aching certainty that our meeting was not chance but divine design.