Page 248 of The Mercy of Dawn

Cyril’s lips parted, but she couldn’t muster up even a noise. Every ache and pain vacated her body as that singular word settled in.

Wife.

Dion had a wife.

How many times had she teased him about not settling down?

How often did the residents of the estate give him a hard time about his proclivities?

“I made two very distinct mistakes in my early days as a rogue,” Dion continued, and Cyril had no idea how. A hundred years of shoving it down, she supposed, but that pain…

“The first was allowing myself to care for someone like that, despite the dangers of my work. The other was not knowing when to keep my fucking mouth shut.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But that was when my ascension happened. They forced me to watch as they…slaughtered her, and I exploded. My fire leveled the building and took most of them with it too, but I didn’t stand a chance against the few who made it. They beat me within an inch of my life, carved this”—he gestured to his scar—“into me, and left me for dead in the mountains.”

Cyril just stared at Dion, at the discomfort in his eyes as he held her gaze, at the tension wrought through every bit of him.

She had no words.

It was always easy to assume no short few terrible things had happened to Dion in his life, with his temperament the way it was. But this was something she’d never considered…

“And to answer what I’m sure your next questions will be…”

Ah, there it was.

Dion’s voice had taken on a honed edge she knew well.

This conversation was over.

“Reykr royal patrols found me by some grace of the gods and brought me here to recover, which was how I met Lars and Runa. And no, I will not speak about her, ever. So please don’t go down that road.”

And that was that.

Her life’s curiosity sated, and no bit of it felt good to know.

Not an ounce of satisfaction in knowing Dion’s deepest, darkest secret.

All it left her feeling was flush and a bit nauseous, which was maybe just the doing of her healing body, but none of what he told her made her feel like she once dreamed it would.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Dion gave her a nonchalant shrug, like he hadn't just mentioned he had a wife that had been brutally murdered. Like he hadn’t just solidified that she knew even less about the man who raised her than she thought.

“It’s ancient history now. But—” His angular eyebrows drew together, and he tipped his head. “You are not doing well, are you?”

Cyril’s responding smile was weak, and she shook her head.

“I’ve felt better,” she said as she pushed back the covers and willed her legs over the edge of the mattress. Dion stood in a hurry. “I just need to get up for a bit and…”

She was immensely thankful for Dion’s physical presence as she pushed herself up onto legs that wanted very little to do with load-bearing. Her knees buckled, and she gripped at Dion’s arm for dear life as pain shot up through her thigh.

“I think up is the last direction you should be going right now, Cyr—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” She sucked a sharp breath in through her teeth and pressed her forehead to Dion’s shoulder. The wave of discomfort started to ebb. “What time is it?”

Dion shifted twice. Once to look at the clock, she was sure, and the second to give her what must have been an incredulous look.

“Just after one. Why?”

“Do you think we missed lunch?”