Page 149 of The Mercy of Dawn

Cyril shook her head. “No. I…I’m not from here.”

“Well, come on then.”

She unlocked a door halfway down the hall and ushered Cyril in. The private room was dark, and far quieter than it had any right to be, especially with its balcony open to the commotion below.

A spacious chaise and a couple of armchairs, in the same burgundy fabric as the drapes downstairs, and a low table filled the center. All simple and comfortable looking.

“Can I offer you some advice, dear?”

Cyril turned to face the woman, who had a tobacco roll hanging out of the corner of her mouth. Her long, honey-brown hair hung half in front of her face as she fished something out of one of the other velvet bags on her belt.

“…Sure?”

“Just speaking from years of personal experience, our dear prince doesn’t like a tense woman,” she said as she pulled a flint stick out, lit the roll, and extended it to Cyril.

Sweet smoke wafted up into Cyril’s face, and she blinked.

The entirely unsettling comment aside, whatever the woman was smoking was not tobacco.

“It’s just a faelock roll.” She planted a hand on her hip, waving the smoldering roll in between them. “A few puffs, and you’ll have a lovely evening. The first one’s on the house.”

Cyril didn’t know what compelled her to throw caution to the wind, but she took the roll from the woman and let the heavy, sweet smoke fill her lungs.

Chapter 36

It took Mikael all of ten minutes to work his way down to the bar, grab a bottle of wine and two glasses, and make his way back up to the suites. He regretted those ten minutes the moment he saw the hostess walking back down the hall with a predatory smile on her face.

“I got that sweet little thing loosened up for you. Seemed nervous,” she purred, patting Mikael’s chest. “She’s in number eight.”

Mikael stared at her, nudging her hand away. “What did you do?”

“Oh, she just smoked a little ‘lock.” The hostess scoffed and brushed past him, waving her hand in the air. “Enjoy your evening, Your Highness,” she crooned.

Mikael sighed.

He should’ve just brought Cyril back to the damn barracks again.

When he made it halfway down the hall and pushed open the door to suite eight, he swore quietly.

The air was hazy, and there was no mistaking that cloying smell.

In the center of the room, Cyril stood with uneasy stillness, her arms hanging at her sides. Mikael took a few purposefully heavy steps towards her and sat down the wine bottle and glasses with a clatter, but she didn’t move.

He put out the half-burned faelock roll that was smoldering in an ashtray on the table.

“Cyril?” he said.

Silence.

He brushed his hand up her back and her body went rigid, wide eyes darting back at him. It took a long moment, but her features softened and she smiled.

“Come with me? I want to go look,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his middle and tipped her head toward the balcony. As if the few feet over there somehow required him to escort her personally.

Which he did, awkwardly, with her refusing to relinquish her hold on him.

“Trust me, okay?” Mikael said as he peeled Cyril’s hands off of him. He turned her around, planting her hands on the railing instead, and stood beside her.

Her eyes didn’t leave him.