Page 192 of The Mercy of Dawn

For longer than she cared to admit, Cyril stood on the cool tile and stared at herself in the mirror. Stared at the scabbed and irritated split sitting high on her cheek. The mottled purple and blue bruising that spread up into the hollow of her eye.

Just like that, the crushing weight of reality clawed into her periphery again.

Her hands were unsteady as she found a brush to run through her hair and swept it all up with a hair tie she found on the counter. She hoped it was Mikael’s.

Cyril splashed cool water on her face, careful to pat it dry, and saw to her uncomfortable bladder before she ventured back out into his room.

The sleeping prince hadn’t moved an inch.

But when she settled in beside him again, her back tucked up against his side, Mikaels stirred. He turned and circled his arms around her, pulling her flush to him.

The noise that left him was the unhappiest she’d ever heard.

“Why are you dressed?” he mumbled, his voice husky with sleep.

“I had to get up.”

“So?”

“I’m not—” She scoffed. “I’m not roaming around naked.”

“Why not? I, for one—” His fingers had been skimming the shirt, moving lower and lower. A contemplative noise rumbled in his throat when he finally reached the hem. “Is this mine?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t know where mine is.”

“Mm. Acceptable.” Mikael swept her ponytail out of the way and kissed her neck. The shudder that coursed through her was entirely involuntary. “Good morning, wrath.”

“Good morning,” she chuckled.

“How are you feeling?”

A loaded question, but her simple mind went to one place.

“I’m…good.” Her cheeks warmed. “And a little…sore.” And it wasn’t in a way she was mad about, either.

Mikael hummed a rumble of pure masculine approval.

“I’m not surprised.” His voice was still rough in a way that wasn’t fair, and Cyril was sure he was doing it on purpose. The warmth of his hand slipped under the hem of her borrowed shirt, dragging the fabric up as he brushed his fingers across her stomach. With just a hint of amusement, he added, “I take it last night was to your liking?”

“Mika.” Cyril meant to chide him, truly, but those fingers continued north and his name tumbled out as a soft groan when he skimmed the underside of her breasts. She arched into his touch. “Of course it was.”

“Good.”

His lips grazed her neck again and Cyril was at a very serious risk of turning molten in his hands. She reached back, carding her fingers through his hair as, breathlessly, she asked, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Wrath, you have no idea,” he said almost reverently. “Are you too sore to go again, or…?”

He trailed off, urging her top leg forward and pressing his hips in behind hers, and—oh. The full, hard length of him eased between her thighs and every muscle in her body went slack.

Gods. She was weak for this man.

“I’ll gladly take care of us both in other ways if you are…” he added.

Cyril didn’t give two hells if she was sore or not. She wanted to feel him inside her again and the blissful euphoria that came with it. She canted her hips back for good measure, and Mikael groaned.

“Please,” Cyril murmured.