Page 152 of The Mercy of Dawn

“That’s alright,” he said, “You can ask me anything you’d like.”

It’s not like she would remember most of it in the morning. But Cyril did not miss a beat. Immediately, she asked, “How old are you?”

Right to the practical questions.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? Is that bad?”

“No, I just didn’t know. When were you born?”

Mikael smiled at her. The temptation to say twenty-seven years ago was painful to pass up. Instead, he said, “Dead of winter, a month after the solstice.”

“How about…” she hummed thoughtfully, her eyes drifting around the room for a moment. “Favorite food?”

“Anything grilled.”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Favorite color?”

Mikael hesitated. “Green?”

“Green?” Cyril squinted at him. “I’ve never seen you wear anything green.”

He shrugged. “I still like it.”

Cyril stewed on that for a while, her brow low and nose wrinkled.

But when Mikael reached for the wine, he garnered all of her attention. Her eyes followed the bottle as he tipped it back and took a healthy swig of the not-overly-pleasant, dry red.

“Can I…” The damn woman looked like she was salivating over wine that wasn’t worth it at all.

Against his better judgment, he poured her a short glass. Faelock rolls and wine weren’t a friendly combination, but it was better than risking her wrath or handing her the entire bottle.

She clasped the glass between her hands and just stared at it.

Just when Mikael was about to give her a gentle nudge back down to reality, a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a snort left her.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, wholly bemused.

“What do you”—Cyril stifled a half-laugh, half-hiccup—“do for fun, Prince Mikael?”

“What do I—oh, you snarky arse.”

“Do you not paint, or…or sew—” Cyril lost the tail end of her words to a snort of laughter. The wine glass in her hands—and its measly contents—hit the floor before Mikael could grab it.

Cyril stared at Mikael, a hand clamped over her mouth and her eyes wide.

“Gods, I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He laughed as he shook his head. “Come here, you difficult woman.”

It took a moment of maneuvering, but Cyril was more than pliant and settled into his lap with ease. She slipped her arms around his neck, nestling her face in close. And gods—she radiated heat like a damn hearth.

“Your turn, Lady Cyril,” Mikael said, as he settled his hands around her hips. His own masochist streak may have had him pulling her body a little more snugly to his.

“For what?”

Oh, her sweet, faelock-addled mind.