Page 233 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Do you want to, or—?”

Runa held the wet cloth towards him, but Mikael shook his head.

He was terrified of hurting her more than he already had.

Mikael pried himself away from Cyril and gave his mother room to work.

She touched Cyril’s chin and eased her head back against the wall. Cyril’s features pinched in some sort of displeasure as his mother started dabbing and wiping at the blood that caked her entire face.

“Cyril, sweetheart?” Runa said, in that same gentle cadence she spoke to Cyril when they found her after Bron’s death. The last time that his mother had to clean her up after she was abandoned and left to fend for herself.

Cyril made a quiet noise.

Runa swept the cloth up to her forehead and patted a clean sliver of it down the side of her face—she was assessing as much as she was cleaning.

The damn cloth was burgundy already and barely half her face was clear.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Cyril sighed.

Her voice made every fiber of his being ache with guilt.

“I bet you are. You can rest as soon as we’re done getting you cleaned up.”

Runa folded the cloth over on itself and glanced towards Mikael, quietly saying, “My boy, can you find some scissors? We'll just cut her out of her clothes since they’re already ruined, and then I can take care of her hair.”

“Her hair?” Mikael blinked at his mother and looked between her and Cyril. “I can wash it myself. I’ll take her into the bath and—”

“A chunk of her hair is missing, Mikael.”

For emphasis, his mother swept a piece in front of her shoulder that was significantly shorter than the rest. He hadn’t even realized…he just thought her braid had come apart and—

“Mika,” his mother hissed, waving the cloth towards the door. “Can you please go look for scissors? Check the desk.”

“Scissors, right. Gods, sorry, I—”

Mikael shook his head and blew out a shaky breath.

Rooting through anyone’s belongings was not something he enjoyed, especially not Cyril’s, but normalcy was out the fucking window. He slipped out into her room, pulled open the singular drawer of her desk, and sagged with a bit of relief as the silver handles slid into sight.

When he stepped back into the bathroom, his mother was already kneeling on the floor, untying Cyril’s boots.

And Cyril?

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked right fucking at him, and she smiled.

Well, maybe smile was a strong word—the corner of her mouth quirked.

But she could have been grinning for all he cared.

“Mika,” she said quietly, and his legs felt fucking weak.

Even his mother looked between the two of them with a shade of surprise on her face as she tossed the frayed strands of Cyril’s laces on the floor and worked off her boots.

“Hey, wrath.” He skimmed his knuckles down the side of her face, skirting past a nasty fucking bruise blooming across the swell of her cheek.

It was a blessing she lost the battle she waged to keep her eyes open because Mikael realized how fucking filthy he was in contrast to the now clean, snow-white skin of her face. Blood and dirt and gods only know what else caked every damn part of him, and her bathroom was looking as bad as one of the murder scenes.