Page 137 of The Mercy of Dawn

She took a step closer to the railing and away from him.

“It’s just hard, okay? We don’t—” Her voice wavered and fell quiet. “We don’t talk about her, or him, or them, and I…”

Whatever else she planned on saying, she abandoned in favor of blowing out a slow, shaky breath. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the polished stone cap of the railing like her life depended on it. Like that was all that kept whatever was cresting inside her together.

Mikael rested on his forearms beside her on the railing. He heard the patio doors pull shut behind them.

“You look just like her.”

It was all Mikael could think to say, because what other options did he have?

Sorry that apparently he got to meet her mother, and she never did?

Sorry that she likely never got to see that sort of easy, genuine happiness in her father's face? In Dion’s too?

Sorry that her family had been no better than massacred, torn apart at the seams?

He didn’t know what the fuck to say, or how to navigate anything with tact.

“I do.” The two words were quiet as Cyril nodded slowly. Then, she added, “I killed her. And I killed him too.”

“Cyril, you did not—” Mikael straightened up and stared at her, even though she still didn’t want to return the favor. “None of that is your fault.”

She huffed a laugh. And, gods, it was a pained noise.

“Isn’t it, though?” Cyril’s eyes finally drifted over and the vacancy in them was chilling. She shook her head and looked back out at the gardens, slowly saying, “My mother died because of me. She would still be here if it wasn’t for me. That means if it wasn’t for me, my fucking coward of a father would still be alive too, and Dion would be happy. So yes, Mikael, it is entirely my fault, every fucking bit of it.”

Mikael stilled.

Good gods. That was…

What a weight to carry.

His mother always preached about the hidden burdens people bore—the guilt and regrets, and the fears buried deep within them. The things that were never given the chance to see the light of day. The things that, despite often being misguided and muddied, and lost to years of self-sabotage, drove the very essence of their being.

He’d never witnessed a more prime example.

And Cyril’s logic, it was…flawed, entirely. As if she purposely came into this world to cause death and destruction. As if she had a choice about being brought into it. But that battle wasn’t worth the breath.

Something else she said, though, got to him.

“I respectfully disagree with you, Cyril, and…” This territory was uncharted and dangerous. “Your father was not a coward, I—”

“Do. Not.” Cyril seethed through clenched teeth, her glare caustic.

“He wasn’t.” Mikael’s words were soft, but if there was something he would not back down on, it was this.

Mikael knew Cyril’s father had taken his own life—he’d spent the last few weeks regretting wielding that knowledge like a weapon at their first dinner—and that there were certain…stigmas associated with it, especially in Helia. His mother had explained as much. But that didn’t change the fact that Hector was a fae man who had lost not only his wife, but his bonded partner, and in such a tragic way. Mikael couldn’t even fathom his grief.

“He was! He was a fucking coward, and he…” Cyril drew her lips into a tight line, but they trembled mercilessly. One hells of a fucking internal battle was raging in there.

She slammed her fist off the railing capstone and stepped away, walking further down the edge of the terrace.

Mikael let her put plenty of space in between them before he asked, “And he…?”

“He left me all by myself!” Cyril bit out, jamming her finger into her chest. “He didn’t want me, and…” A soft, whimpering noise left her. “And Dion doesn’t want me, and nobody…”

Cyril cracked.