Page 44 of The Mercy of Dawn

“How was your visit with Runa?” Dion continued with that feigned, casual ease he wore so well. Like he hadn’t been anxiously awaiting hearing about every damn thing she spoke with the queen about.

Cyril only scoffed.

“…Not good?”

“Good is not a word I would use to describe it, no.” They were almost at the doors to the royal residences now, and Cyril picked up her pace.

“What happened?” Dion spoke softly as he reached for her arm.

She shook him off.

“I do not want to talk about it,” Cyril ground out, offering the guards posted at the doors each a tight smile.

Dion waited until they made it clear through to the other side before he caught her wrist and pulled her to a stop. He did not let go this time when she tried to twist out of his grip.

“Cyr, stop.” His casual ease was gone, replaced with something far more impatient. “What is your problem?”

“You,” she hissed, turning back to glare at him. “You are my problem.”

Dion’s brow narrowed.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You and your fucking secrets.”

Cyril jerked her arm back and Dion finally let go.

“My secrets?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, please enlighten me.”

Her uncle's unwavering gaze held a clear challenge, like the gold blazed with the prospect of putting her in her place, and Cyril met it with her own.

“Were you ever planning on telling me that Runa and my mother were friends? Or did you figure she would corner me at some point and do it herself? Try to push some sentimental bullshit on me like she just did?”

The wave of anger she’d struggled to smother in the archives was sparking to life again, and Cyril didn’t know if she had it in her to stuff it back down.

Not for Dion, at least.

“Cyril…” he sighed, rubbing his brow. “We’ve only been here a day. I did not think that she would—”

“A day?” she spat. “What about the ten fucking days we traveled for?! Or were you too busy brooding the entire gods damned time to think about anyone else?”

“Lower your voice, now.”

Dion cast a pointed glance over his shoulder.

Cyril wasn’t sure when the prince commander, or the guard he was standing with, took up watch at the half-open door to the residences. But she didn’t care. Let the arrogant asshole listen. His opinions on her were abundantly clear, and she had no plans to improve on that.

She let all of her attention hang on Dion as she seethed, “You had ten days to tell me one simple thing, and you didn’t. Because you’re a selfish fucking coward and you never have the balls to tell me anything.”

Dion’s eyes blazed, and he was in her personal space in an instant, crowding her back against the wall. He grabbed her chin with a brutal grip and jerked it upward, forcing her to look at him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Have you ever considered,” he seethed, “that I don’t tell you anything, Cyril, because you act like a fucking child? That every time you throw one of these little fucking tantrums, I find you a little less deserving of my so-called secrets?”

The inferno pumping in Cyril’s veins banked into ice and she stilled.

“I thought as much.” Dion huffed, his breath warm on her face. “Deal with your fucking baggage, Cyril. You’re not the only person who’s ever lost someone and you need to grow the fuck up about it.”