Page 104 of The Mercy of Dawn

Wherever Dion went, it was hours before he came back.

Hours that Cyril spent lying in bed at first, then tossing and turning, stewing in her disdain. Stewing in her disbelief that even a world away from home, Dion was still finding ways to smother her. To keep her caged. The same man who, only days ago, was ready to cut her loose on her own in Reykr.

The dichotomy was sickening.

But it was during that fitful attempt at sleep that the most abrupt realization crossed Cyril’s mind.

She could leave.

She could get out of bed, throw her shit in a bag, and walk out of the inn.

No one would stop her in the middle of the night.

Not that she knew where she would even go, but she could leave.

She’d intended to use the gold coins stashed in her bag for a bit of city shopping, should the opportunity present itself, but they could also take her somewhere.

Anywhere.

One of the cargo ships docked at the far end of the bay would surely be willing to accept a stowaway with a flash of gold.

Her dream died, though, before it had a full breath of life.

When Cyril finally worked up the nerve to get out of bed and stuff half her clothes into her travel bag, footfalls echoed down the hall.

She froze, waiting.

The hinges of a door squealed and that heavy thud of boots continued into the room next to hers—Dion’s room.

Her bravery fizzled, and Cyril sank onto her bed.

Even though Dion would never admit it, their sleeping assignments were purposeful. Tyr, Bron, and Ren all had rooms nearest to the stairwell, to make their comings and goings as convenient as possible.

Cyril though?

The dead end of the hall, tucked right next to Dion’s room. Meaning she’d have to traverse the rickety, creaky floorboards right past her uncle’s room with her damn travel bag if she wanted to get out. There wasn’t a hope in the hells of her not rousing Dion’s attention, and that was not the sort of confrontation she was confident she could endure.

She opted to lay wide awake in bed and stew for another few hours instead.

When the first rays of morning light struggled to break through the cloudy, grime-coated window, she slipped out to the women’s bathing chamber across the hall. By the time Cyril washed and dressed and packed up the rest of her belongings, the inn was just beginning to stir to life.

One of the young, soft-spoken barmaids in the taproom brought Cyril a mug of tea and a couple of oven-fresh buns with berry jam—which she refused any damn payment for—and left her to wait in silence.

For two fucking hours.

Surprise graced Dion’s evidently wrung-out features when he finally carried his intolerable arse down the stairs.

“Should we just get on the road now, or…?” Dion didn’t bother setting down the travel bag slung over his shoulder when he came to a stop beside Cyril’s table. He cast a single, cursory glance around the lifeless taproom before he turned his attention back to her.

“I’d love that.” Cyril failed at tempering her tone into anything other than fucking annoyed as she gathered up her bag and stepped past Dion.

Fresh air would do her some good, right?

The cool morning breeze that—

“How long have you been down here?”

She glanced back at him. “Hours.”