Page 245 of The Mercy of Dawn

Runa spoke too softly for Cyril to make out much more than night terror and feverish as they cleared the rest of the distance down the hall.

Dion’s eyes were wary as he said, “Where is—”

“Do not finish that,” Runa bit out. “You are her family, and I cannot even fathom the list of things you have to make amends for. Start by taking care of her for once.”

If Cyril hadn’t felt like shit before, she certainly did after that.

Even with their relationship left in shreds, she still was a burden.

A thread of her being revolted at the thought of why their relationship was in shreds, of why she hadn’t seen him in weeks. But all reason unraveled when he sank to his knees at her side.

Rare softness hung in Dion’s eyes, his entire face uneasy, as he said, “What do you need, Cyr? Do you want me to…?”

Even with Dion’s hesitancy, Cyril nodded desperately. She was afraid of what sort of broken noise might come out of her if she tried to speak.

Lars and Dion had some sort of unspoken exchange before the king loosened his hold on Cyril to let her uncle get his arms around her.

Dion pulled her to his chest, the soul-soothing smell of his cologne wrapping around her too. A sob slipped out of her, followed by another, and another, until her shoulders shook and she crumpled against him. Her emotions were fucking fried.

“Oh, kiddo,” he said with a sort of gentleness she hadn’t heard in years—a sort of gentleness that only made her cry harder—as he ran his hand over the back of her head, over the hacked-off strands of hair. “I’ve got you, okay? Let’s get you back in bed and comfortable.”

Dion didn’t wait for her to make a fumbled attempt at speaking before he eased her up onto her feet—a monumental task given how her muscles protested at the movement and how pain shot bone deep in her leg. She couldn’t even graze her toes on the ground without a whimper cutting through the sniffles her sobs had settled into.

“I can’t…” she admitted, even as she tried once more to settle a fraction of her weight on her left leg. Not a fucking chance.

“That’s alright.”

Dion was already shifting, guiding her arms up around his neck before his own settled behind her back and knees and lifted her. Cyril nestled her head against his chest, and Dion carried her back to her room without another word.

Even as he set her down in bed, brought her water, and made sure she was thoroughly tucked in, the silence persisted.

He didn’t question what happened.

He didn’t scold her for reckless endangerment.

He didn’t have a snide comment about her decisions or interests.

For the first time in Cyril’s entire life, Dion Rhodea kept his opinions to himself.

It was a blessing that sleep took her before she could dwell on that too much.

Chapter 64

Cyril was a child the last time she woke to Dion sitting at her bedside, and it made her heart hurt in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. Not with how much the rest of her body still ached, at least. Even the weighty press of her duvet edged on being uncomfortable.

Dion looked so peaceful, slouched back in the plush armchair with his ankle crossed over his knee, flipping through a stack of parchment. The dark shadows clinging around his eyes, though, spoke volumes to just how little peace he’d had in the weeks since she last saw him.

He deserved it, she supposed, for the decision he made.

But it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Cyril eased onto her side, drawing her knees up as close to her chest as they would go. Her healing body did not like that, but she didn't care.

“Morning,” she mumbled.

Dion’s eyes slid over to her. He lowered whatever he was reading.

The smile he gave her was cautious, maybe a little sad even.