Page 184 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Last door on the right.” Silas jerked his head towards the end of the room. “Is Cyril alright?”

“She’ll get there,” Mikael said. Hoped.

Silas made a non-committal noise, backing out of the doorway once Mikael had one of the canvas kits in hand.

He’d made it a few steps back down the hall before he turned and said, “Oh, Silas? If anyone comes looking for her…”

Silas shrugged somewhat dramatically and said, “Haven’t seen her in days, boss, sorry.” He gave Mikael a knowing look, inclined his head, and headed back in the other direction without another word.

For better or worse, Cyril hadn’t moved an inch from where he left her, with that faraway look in her eyes that he’d seen so many damn times now. One day he’d ask her where she went, when the weight of the world became too much to bear and her mind pulled her away somewhere safe.

“Cyr?” he asked, still across the room.

The last thing he wanted to do was startle her, but she still tensed. Then her eyes met his, and she softened. The saddest, faintest smile tugged at her lips and threatened to bring him to his knees.

As he rolled out the kit on his desk, she observed him in total silence. If it wasn’t for the white-knuckled grip she had on the arms of the chair, Cyril almost could have passed for the picture of calm. Almost.

Both of their noses wrinkled when he poured some antiseptic out on a cloth. His eyes burned, and it was only going to be worse for her.

“Sorry,” Mikael murmured as he tipped her face up to get a better angle. “It smells awful and it’s going to hurt. You’re alright?”

Cyril nodded and closed her eyes.

The split ran along the length of her cheekbone, and he dabbed at it with the gentlest touch he could manage. He’d never felt like so much of a brute before, until he held her fragile, broken pieces in his hands like this. Wounds were something he’d likely mended in the hundreds by now, but never were they weighted with such vulnerability.

Through her gritted teeth and winces, Mikael apologized profusely.

And when it came time to swipe some healing salve over her wound, he found his eyes and his fingers lingering far longer than they needed to.

He struggled to accept how hard Dion had to hit her to cause damage like that. That his anger could consume him so much that this was the only answer? All for what? To prove to himself that he was in control? Fucking pathetic.

“We should tell someone, Cyr,” he said, setting aside the supplies and wiping off his hands. “My parents, I mean—”

“They know.”

“They do?”

She nodded, slowly. “They were there.”

So he wanted an audience too. Disgusting.

Mikael sank to his knees in front of her, trying to catch her attention as it settled back on the floor.

“I—” he started, and gods, he should have stopped right there. Stopped before he started offering things that his resolve might not handle. But she held his gaze, and he was desperate to see even a thread of that sun-spun gold light up again. “Do you want to stay with me, for tonight at least?”

Her brows climbed.

“Please,” she breathed, and his heart ached at her shaky inhale. Silver rimmed her eyes. “I…I don’t want to be alone, and…and I—”

“It’s alright,” he murmured. He stood and extended his hands to her. Cold, clammy fingers settled on his. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Cyril didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Dion was her guardian, after all—her damn family—and he was supposed to keep her safe too. Maybe Mikael was different. Maybe he meant it.

It was all she could hope as he led her back through the barracks with their fingers twined. She focused on the warmth of that hand that dwarfed hers, on the dull rumble of chatter and laughter as they neared and slipped through the great room.

But when Mikael stopped to push open the door, all that focus went up in smoke. Cyril’s whole body tensed, her heels anchored to the floor, and she…