Page 110 of The Mercy of Dawn

Were there more poetic ways to describe a woman’s eyes?

Probably.

But the guard started its celebrations early, and words were not Mikael’s strength even on the best of days. He might’ve honestly been halfway back to sober for the second time when his mother brought Cyril and Dion down to the back lawn at sundown.

That was the first time her uncle caught him staring.

Hells, he wouldn’t have even realized if Ari didn’t discreetly suggest Mikael perhaps find something else to occupy his eyes. He hadn’t meant to look at Dion, but that’s where his eyes landed next, and he was looking right back at him.

Dark and unimpressed.

The second time happened when he heard Cyril laugh.

He didn’t even know at what or why, but she was standing with his mother a few tables away, and the noise garnered every bit of his befuddled attention. He watched them shoot back what could only be lockmead—a rare thing to see his mother do—and then Dion’s disapproving glower stepped into his field of vision.

Ari kept an eye out for him after that and only goaded him mildly about taking such a keen and dangerous interest in the Rhodea woman. He let him know the moment it looked like Dion cleared out for good, and Cyril was still walking about the party.

But some force of fucking nature did not want him seeing Cyril tonight.

Mikael was halfway across the lawn when his father decided that was the exact moment they were going to have some father-son bonding. He wanted to talk about their hunt, and the lands, and how he felt about the more administrative turn his responsibilities had taken as commander.

Lars, too, was deep in his solstice cups.

His mother showed up sometime later, just as their topic of discussion slid dangerously towards futures, and she sidelined their conversation entirely.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, humoring his liquored parents, but it felt like hours. Thankfully, they didn’t seem fussed when he finally made his polite escape under the guise of wanting to get back to celebrating with the guards.

Mikael wove through the dozens of tables and mostly devoured spreads of food and drink, scouring for that damn green dress. But he couldn’t find her anywhere.

Maybe not surprising, considering it was late.

The sky was that shade of deep, consuming black that only came in the middle of the night, and the sea of stars was out on full display.

Cyril probably made the wise decision to just go to bed, as she often seemed inclined to do. Mikael was going to have to drag his inevitably hungover ass out of bed at the crack of dawn to go down to the stables and invite her to the barracks, again.

He needed to go to sleep.

Mikael was most of the way back up the winding pathway alongside the royal gardens when he was certain he had gone a little heavy on the lockmead.

He blinked and rubbed at his eyes.

The swath of pale blue-green laid out on one of the terraced steps of grass up ahead stayed firmly in place.

“Cyril, are you…?” He stopped a few feet away from the woman flat on her back on the ground, looking up at the stars with half a smile on her face. “You’re alright?”

Cyril laughed—no—she fucking giggled as she swept her arms through the grass and said, “I’m great, Your Highness.”

Oh. She was great alright. She was right fucking hammered too.

“Lady Cyril, did you get into the lockmead?” Mikael asked with a chuckle. He took a spot on the grass beside her, leaning back on his palms and rolling his shoulders. They still ached from the solstice hunt.

Her golden, glossy gaze drifted over to him, lips parted like she had some sort of retort ready to fire back at him. Instead, a grin crept into her face, and she nodded. “Maybe a little.”

He cast a bit of skeptical side eye her way. “Maybe a lot?”

Cyril’s nose wrinkled, and she nodded. “Maybe a lot.”

Mikael shook his head.