Page 151 of The Mercy of Dawn

Mikael leaned back against the railing with a sigh.

Babysitting it was.

Considering he was certain Cyril had never indulged in something like smoked faelock before, she was tolerating it remarkably well. It probably helped that the woman could put back more liquor than someone her size had any right to and still keep her wits somewhat about her.

There was a bit of restlessness in the way her free hand flexed and slid along the railing and the near-endless shifting of her weight. But that was all standard operation for faelock rolls. It hit everyone a little differently, but the blend circulated in the club was…specific.

It was in their best interest to have their patrons blissful, loosened up, and with just enough aphrodisiac in their blood to partake in the staff services, regardless of cost. Cyril, thankfully, hadn’t seemed to tip too far into the latter yet.

When her cheeks flushed suddenly and she stared up at him with wide eyes, Mikael couldn’t help but chuckle as he said, “What did you see?”

Her uncle seemed pretty high on the list of traumatizing options, but anything was possible at The Stairs. The chaos on the floor below made it impossible for him to pick out anything in particular.

“I saw…” She turned back and pointed vaguely to where seating cubbies lined the far wall. The velvet drapes were closed on all but one.

“Oh,” was all Mikael said.

Cyril coughed quietly.

“Is she…”

“Getting thoroughly fucked by…” Mikael made a point of counting slowly enough that Cyril’s cheeks took on nearly a shade of burgundy, and she pressed her face into his chest. “Two—ah, three people? Yes, she is. Talk about making use of every available—”

“Mikael,” Cyril groaned into his shirt.

“What?” he laughed, easing his arms around her. Softly, he added, “Does that sort of thing interest you, wrath?”

Cyril stared up at him, eyes wide, and she looked scandalized.

She was quiet, though, for a long moment, and…

Fuck him.

She was giving it thought.

“No, I…” Cyril nestled her face back into his chest. “I just want you.”

Raw male pride swelled up in his chest with such ferocity it nearly ached. There was no shortage of possessive, smug things that threatened to tumble out of him, but he reined it into a single question.

“Do you want to watch them with me?”

Cyril didn’t even look up as she shook her head, and Mikael breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He would have entertained any damn thing she asked of him, but that would have been a particularly cruel form of torture.

“Come sit, then. I can feel your damn knees wobbling,” he said as he took Cyril’s hand and led her away from the railing.

She dropped into the corner of the velvet sofa with a sigh, leaning back against the arm. Her eyes fell shut as she stretched her legs out over his lap. He had no issue splaying a hand over the thighs so generously presented to him, and it was prime time to get a bit of that wine in his system.

Mikael wrenched the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it across the room. The smell of what would surely be a headache in the morning wafted—

“I don’t know anything about you,” Cyril said so quietly he nearly missed it. Her eyes were half-open, fixated on the rolled cuff of his sleeve as she toyed with it.

He set the bottle down and squeezed her leg, but Cyril just blinked at him as he said, “What do you want to know?”

A sheepish smile formed on her lips. “…Did I say that out loud?”

Mikael nodded.

“Oh,” she chuckled. “Sorry.”