Page 202 of The Mercy of Dawn

Mikael pressed his lips to her shoulder and said, “I know.”

He thought that would be the end of it, that heavy silence would settle in. But Cyril shifted in his arms and quietly added, “I understand why he did it.”

Every muscle in Mikael’s body went tense.

“What?”

Was she insinuating that there was justification to what Dion did, that—

“My father. What he did.” She sighed and gripped his arms. Her fingers were so fucking cold. “He wasn’t a coward, he just…he lost everything…and…I understand now.”

Ice plunged through Mikael’s veins.

He was sure he’d never heard more unsettling words spoken.

At one point, all he wanted was for Cyril to understand her father wasn’t a coward for taking his own life. He was just a man who had experienced unimaginable tragedy. But Mikael never wanted her to understand in a way that the events of her own life made it seem justifiable.

He tightened his arms around her, if that were even possible, and said, “You should get some rest, Cyr.”

He didn’t know what the fuck else to say.

A quiet hum left Cyril, and it took some time, but she settled. Her breathing slowed to a soft and shallow rhythm, and the desperate grip she held on his arms went slack.

Mikael did not get any rest.

He laid there with Cyril for hours, watching as those thin streams of daylight drifted the rest of the way across the room and vanished, bathing them in darkness. After her frightening declaration, he was wary to leave her for even a few minutes, but his eyes snagged on the clock on his bedside table and he eased himself away from her.

It was hours past dinner now, and Cyril needed to eat at some point. Even if she refused to take care of herself, Mikael would be damned if he didn’t do his part. The same song and dance they’d done since Bron’s death.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hungry either, and he knew the kitchens were not a fan of visitors too late in the evenings.

So Mikael worked himself into some semblance of presentable and wandered down through the quiet and heavily guarded halls. Both were things, he supposed, that stemmed from the tragedy that unfolded the day before in the archives.

He had a twinge of guilt for the work that he should be doing, the paperwork, and the organizing of manpower. But the fading wisp of a woman sleeping up in his bed took precedence over everything. He knew Ari could handle things on his own.

Thankfully, no one batted an eyelash when he slipped into the kitchens. He loaded a plate with odds and ends for the both of them, snagged two mugs of tea, and left as quickly as he came.

Upstairs, when he nudged open the door, Cyril was sitting up against the headboard. Her knees were drawn tight to her chest and one of the table lamps was lit.

“Where did you go?” she asked, and he recognized the shakiness in her voice immediately. Her following sniffle was only further confirmation. “I woke up, and you were gone, and I didn’t know…”

Patience. Patience. Patience.

“Just to the kitchens.”

Mikael held up the plate as he pushed the door shut with his foot.

His quarters weren’t exactly a place built for entertaining of this variety, but he slid the stack of logbooks over on the low table by the fire and cleared a spot off for them on the sofa. A proper cleaning could happen another day.

“Come eat something.”

Cyril sank into the pillows and blankets. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve eaten half a meal in two days. I highly doubt that.” Mikael held back on the urge to mention she certainly must have worked up an appetite. Humor didn’t seem like a wise choice. “Come and eat a bit.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Cyr, please,” he sighed, but Cyril just shook her head.