Page 56 of The Mercy of Dawn

Standing in front of the armchair he’d spent all damn night planted in, the stare Dion cut them with was withering. His eyes fucking dripped with displeasure.

“Dion, it’s alright. They’re allowed—” Lars tried to ease the tension that held the entire room hostage, but Dion cut him off.

“Was I not clear with you?” He looked right at Cyril, holding his glass of spirits on its sixth or seventh refill. “Stop acting like a fucking child.”

Cyril took a deep breath.

They’d had such a nice last couple of days.

“Piss off, Rhodea,” Ren spoke before Cyril even exhaled, and everything about his posture changed. He was nothing but a long line of coiled tension, ready to strike. “It was me, not her,” he spat. “Stop looking for excuses to treat her like shit.”

The room's wary eyes focused on Cyril and her uncles.

Cyril just wanted to slip back into the shadows and disappear. The few brawls she’d seen break out back at the estate were nasty things, full of black eyes and bloody noses. She did not want to imagine the chaos that would ensue if one happened in this room.

Bronson, mercifully, appeared out of thin fucking air. He clasped Ren on the shoulder and jerked his chin towards the door.

“Let's turn in, yeah? Busy day tomorrow.”

Ren breathed a few colorful profanities, but let Bron lead him out of the room after he kissed Cyril on the forehead. Tyriel followed with a sway a few steps behind, and Dion’s caustic stare trailed them the entire way out.

Behind Cyril, the hushed conversation started back up as the guardsmen decided whatever threat they were assessing was no longer of concern. Cyril just stood there, avoiding eye contact with anyone in particular, because she didn’t know what the fuck to do.

There was a half-full glass of wine back at her table she wanted to finish, but she wasn’t sure Dion would tolerate her presence anymore. With how he shot back his drink and quickly poured himself another, she didn’t know if it was worth sticking around to find out, either.

Soft silver robes swept into her vision before she had a chance to think on it much more, and Runa’s hand settled on her shoulder. The smile she gave Cyril was knowing.

The queen looked past her and called out, “Mikael?”

Cyril’s body tensed.

They hadn’t interacted since he was hells-bent on driving her fucking mental while she documented the runes, and she was plenty content with that.

Mikael filtered through the groups of men and came to stand beside them, hands clasped behind his back.

Cyril realized then, glancing up at him, that he really did remind her of Dion, and not just a little. From the same swaggering, arrogant way they walked, to the black fitted everything they wore, and the shirts left open far lower than they had any right to be.

Mikael was just bigger than Dion.

Not bulky, but taller. A touch broader in the shoulders.

A dash more wild and handsome—

Oh, fucking hells.

She’d had too much to drink.

And if Mikael’s smirk was to be trusted, her observations…well they were less than fucking subtle.

“Have you told Cyril about the training yet?” Runa eyed her son expectantly.

He stiffened, and that smirk slipped right off his face.

“Ah. No, I haven’t had a chance with—”

“Well?”

Mikael’s gaze slid to Cyril. Flat, unimpressed. “We have new guards starting their base training next week, and my mother”—Runa grinned in her periphery—“suggested that you may have some interest in participating in their training drills.”