Page 175 of The Mercy of Dawn

Cyril stilled, and Mikael was certain he watched her heart vacate her body.

It was a blessing for everyone involved Rendal clamped his hands on Dion’s shoulders and steered him away, his rough timbre saying in no uncertain terms, “We’re done, Dion. Let’s go.”

Steps behind them, Mikael’s parents filed out of the dining room.

His father looked exhausted—a sentiment he wholly appreciated—and his mother’s eyes were still wide.

“We’re, uh… We’re going to turn in early,” Lars said a bit hoarsely as he looked between Mikael and Cyril. “If either of you needs anything…”

“I know where to find you.”

His father nodded, and Runa muttered, “Goodnight,” so quietly he almost missed it before they disappeared down the hallway.

Cyril was far too quiet now, staring sort of blankly at the wall opposite her.

“Cyr, we should—”

She let out a breath and looked up at him. Tears had quenched every bit of fire in her eyes again. “Is he…jealous? I don’t understand…”

“I don’t know, Cyr. I really don't.” Far be it from him to understand whatever the fuck was going through that man's head. “Let's just go upstairs, yeah?”

“I think…” Mikael sighed.

They’d been in Cyril’s room for barely ten minutes, and she would not stop pacing. From one end of the room straight through to the other, she swore and clenched her fists, muttering teary declarations about Dion.

“I think your uncle is the sort of man that is used to being in control of everything, Cyr, and he is losing that control at a frightening speed.”

She nodded, slow and methodical, but didn’t stop pacing.

Mikael pushed up from the seat he’d taken at the foot of her bed and planted himself directly in her path. She went to step around him, but he clasped her face in his hands and said, “You’re going to wear a hole in the damn floor. Stop.”

A huff of annoyance left her, and she narrowed her glossy eyes.

He couldn’t even fathom what was happening in her head, but there was no way this was productive. She needed to stop for a minute and just breathe.

So Mikael kissed her.

A brief distraction, soft and affectionate, was all he intended. A moment just to ground her, but Cyril leaned into it eagerly. The warmth of her hands settled on his chest, and she made one of those quiet, needy noises that did unreasonable things to his heart rate.

Cyril tasted like nothing but wine and a glaring mistake in judgment.

Her fingers slid down his chest, stopping only when she hooked them in the laces of his pants and tugged. Mikael struggled to stifle his groan as he grabbed her wrist and pulled it away.

“Absolutely not.”

“Mika, please,” she whined, surging up to brush her lips to his neck. “I want—”

“No.” Mikael grabbed both her hands, holding them between them, and he leaned away from her. “Do you know how much you drank at dinner?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” He sighed. Not again. “Cyr, if I can’t have you with a clear mind, I don’t want you.”

In an instant, every bit of simmering heat and anger fell from Cyril’s face, something wounded taking its place. She was already staggering a step back from him when he realized the fatal flaw in his words.

She stared at him, shaking her head, and pointed at the door. “If you don’t want me, you can fucking leave.”

“I didn't mean it like that, Cyr.” He took a step toward her, but she backed away and her eyes overflowed with tears. “You know I want you, but not like this. Not liquor and anger fueled—”