Page 29 of The Mercy of Dawn

Cyril tugged Dion to a stop a few feet from a door he seemed intent on leading her straight to.

“Wait. With the king—”

“Lars, you mean?”

Cyril sighed. A few hours away from him was nowhere near enough.

“Yes, Lars, do I have to…do anything?”

“What, like get on your knees and offer yourself as a sacrifice?” He raised a brow at her, the insufferable arse, and Cyril smacked his arm. Dion only laughed. “No, nothing like that. Lars detests formality in private. He’ll have my head if I let you do anything like that.”

A small comfort she would take gladly.

Dion didn’t give her a second more to dwell before he was tugging her through the door and down another damned hallway. This time, though, it was narrow and carried the sound of casual chatter, and something that made Cyril’s stomach growl.

Food.

The smell of charred meats and spices hit her nose, and her mouth watered like she’d never fucking eaten before.

Cyril hadn't been sure what to expect when they rounded the last corner through an open doorway, but a dining room with wood-trimmed accents, lit by the soft glow of candles and sconces, certainly wasn't it.

Warm, cozy, and intimate, it reminded her of the estate in a way that hurt.

Fuck.

She missed home already.

Across the room near a sideboard plied with wine and spirits, the two princes held some sort of quiet conversation as Runa fussed over place settings and covered dishes. Beside the crown prince, his wife stood quietly, and they seemed to be missing any semblance of a king.

Cyril also hadn’t expected each one of them to turn their attention on her and Dion the moment they stepped through the door.

She gripped her uncle’s arm a bit more tightly.

“Oh, good!” Runa swept over to them with a look of pleasant surprise. “I’d started to wonder if you’d changed your mind about joining us.”

“I was going to blame Cyr’s primping for us running late,” Dion chuckled and Cyril shot him a narrowed look, “but truthfully, I fell asleep.”

“You take longer to primp than I do anyway,” Cyril grumbled.

Her uncle didn’t look amused, but the queen did.

“I’m glad some things haven’t changed.” Runa gave Cyril a knowing smile before she looked past her, and warmth sparkled in her eyes. “There you are, my love.”

The voice that came from behind Cyril was a low, rich rumble.

“Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting. You know how Matthias can be sometimes.”

Cyril turned slowly with Dion’s guidance. She knew he told her not to do anything, but she felt obligated to at least dip her head in acknowledgment.

Lars was an imposing man, almost Rendall’s height if she had to guess, with shoulders that commanded every bit of space in the entryway. She understood quickly where the streak of wildness she saw in the arrogant prince came from.

He grinned at Dion, gleaming white double canines a stark contrast to the deep olive tone of his skin, as he ran a hand through his tousled brown hair. The fine lines and creases that formed around his eyes spoke to just how often happiness gripped his features. Far more warmth existed in the midnight-blue depths of those eyes, too, than she ever would have thought to find in a king. Especially one ruling a place of such nefarious reputation.

“I’m glad to see you looking well, my friend.”

Lars embraced her uncle—still a strange thing for her to see him doing so freely.

“Likewise.”