Page 30 of The Mercy of Dawn

Dion clasped Cyril’s shoulder and the king’s attention slid to her. His feral grin slipped into something a bit more refined. Far more kingly.

“And you must be the young Lady Cyril?”

She nodded, mouth suddenly dry.

“I'm glad to finally meet you. We’re happy to have both of you here, truthfully, despite the circumstances.”

Right. Murders. The contract. How quickly had that all slipped from her mind?

“Thank you,” she managed—awkwardly, if the amusement gracing both mens faces said anything.

Lars, thankfully, rounded them and headed straight for his wife. He took her delicate, freckled face in his palms and kissed her with such intensity that the queen made a quiet, protesting noise and pushed him away.

“Lars,” she intoned, as he swept her back into his arms.

“I haven’t seen you all day…” he murmured, though it was plenty loud for them all to hear.

No one else seemed the least bit phased. Cyril was the only one who took a sudden interest in the floral pattern woven into the dining chair upholstery.

“You heathen,” Runa laughed as she broke free again. She pointed at the chair at the head of the table. “Sit, my love. And as for the rest of you…”

Her appraising glance slid around the room as she tapped her finger on her lip and then herded them all like cattle.

Dion and Astor she sat on either side of the king, followed by herself and Mikael opposite each other, and finally Reyna and Cyril across from each other at the end. Meaning Cyril was stuck beside the unsettling prince for their entire meal.

Fucking wonderful.

Mikael looked a little less feral than he had earlier, clean shaven with his auburn hair tied back. If someone told her that he and Dion shared a tailor with the dark, well-fitted tunic he wore, she’d believe them.

What hadn't changed, though, was the way his eyes roamed with unearned comfort as she settled into her seat beside him. It made her fucking skin crawl.

“Wine?” he asked, the bottle in his hand already tipped towards her glass.

Cyril hoped the prince had a heavy pour, because she was going to need it.

“So you don’t paint, sew, or play an instrument…”

“No, I do not,” Cyril sighed, “and if this is just some ploy to get me to ask you about yourself, you can stop. I’m not interested.”

Mikael’s third attempt at uncovering what ladies of the south do for fun had gone just as poorly as the first and the second. Cyril’s patience was stretched so fucking thin she was certain there was nothing left to it.

She could only explain so many times that, yes, it was possible for her to be that pale and have hobbies outside, and, yes, she knew how to use each of the weapons she arrived with.

The prince just would not stop.

All Cyril wanted was to eat the rest of her meal in peace, but all the wild, auburn-haired prince wanted to do was listen to himself talk. Cyril even tried to catch the eye of Reyna sitting opposite her, but her attention never strayed from her plate or husband.

Mikael’s ice-blue eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

“I’m sure they briefed you on everything you needed to know about me before my arrival.” Cyril took a small sip of her wine. And then a longer one, thinking. “Unless, of course, Reykr’s intelligence from outside its borders is so lacking that you did not receive a briefing. Or maybe commanders aren’t important enough to receive briefings here?”

Cyril kept her voice low, but that didn’t stop her from drawing out her amusement with his title.

If Dion overheard a word of her speaking to the prince like that, he’d have her head. But for better or worse, he hadn’t even bothered to look at her end of the table for their entire meal.

“Am I not allowed to take an interest in a guest from a foreign land?” Mikael said cooly, his jaw tense

Cyril stifled her laughter into a quiet snort.