Page 93 of The Mercy of Dawn

This woman had thrown him so far out of his fucking element, and it gnawed at him. Hells, he’d had to resort to flat-out ignoring her at basic training for fear his blood would vacate his brain and he’d say or do something stupid.

Like, challenge her to spar again.

Which he desperately wanted to do, if only to sate that clawing urge to feel what it would be like to get her beneath him. Hells, maybe just on top of him again.

Cyril was attractive in all the right ways, and he was a little, well…pent up.

None of the women who’d visited the barracks in recent weeks caught his interest—not something he usually had any issues with—and a batch of fresh recruits meant taking off into the city for a day or two wasn’t in the cards.

Maybe tonight he’d have a bit of luck and find someone to take his mind off of those gold eyes and that dangerous smile.

And tomorrow…

He’d invite Cyril to come to the barracks tomorrow night.

Chapter 22

The Kallans knew how to throw a party.

When Cyril left her room the following morning, the palace was deserted. She even got started later than planned—sleep hadn’t come easily—but an eerie quiet hung in the halls on her journey to the dining room a few hours after sunrise.

It almost made her regret not staying longer if the post-dinner revelry had gone late enough that even the early-bird courtiers weren’t ambling about. Then again, with Dion’s premature departure and Mikael’s interest in making himself scarce, she would have been stuck fending for herself in a room full of strangers.

If the rogues’ tenets she so often disregarded were anything to believe, strangers were to always be regarded as untrustworthy, and being alone in that ballroom was equivalent to a death wish.

At least that’s what Ren would have said.

Besides, she was sure someone like Councilor Mathias didn’t get any easier to manage as the night went on.

Cyril ate her breakfast in solitude—something that didn’t bother her in the least—and learned from a patrolling guard that this was typical for the day after a state dinner or holiday. According to a chatty kitchen hand, someone would have come knocking on her door in a couple of hours to see if she wanted a meal and a hangover tonic.

Cyril took a mental note of that for the next time—Summer Solstice was just over a week away and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to do a bit of celebrating on her favorite holiday.

The stables, at least, had their usual buzz of activity when she arrived there, a steaming mug of tea in hand. At home, Dion always complained about the smell of hay, but Cyril counted it as one of her favorite things about the stables in the morning. It was no different in Reykr.

She was already at Attie’s stall, undoing the latch, when one of the stable hands poked her head down the aisle.

“Good morning, Lady Cyril,” the woman said in the soft, sweet cadence she always spoke with. “Did you not go to the state dinner?”

Cyril had forgotten her name immediately—and her pride wouldn’t let her ask for it again—but she would always remember the calming energy that followed this woman. She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, with braids that brushed her waist and warm, dark brown eyes. There didn’t seem to be a creature in the entire building that didn’t relax a little in her presence.

“I went, but I think everyone else stayed much later than I did.” Cyril smiled and set her mug down on a ledge. Attie was already nudging at her arm, the needy thing she was. “I don’t really know anyone here, so…”

The woman nodded.

“It’s a beautiful morning to ride, at least.” She smiled, taking a step back. “I’ll go get you some apples.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Cyril supposed there were worse reputations to hold than being the Lady who shared a penchant for apples with her horse. Like being the slimy old councilor whose hands had a habit of wandering to places they didn’t belong.

She allowed herself a single second to shudder at the thought of how the night could have gone before she set about hauling out Attie’s tack. Anything to force that lingering feeling of Councilor Mathias’s grasp out of her mind.

Dion always had some philosophical saying about busy hands. She just could never fucking remember it.

The third or fourth time Attie wedged her muzzle under Cyril’s arm while she was checking the fastenings on the bridle, she stepped back and sighed.

“You’re impossible, you know.” Cyril shook her head at the horse and scoffed at the snort she got in response. “I’m serious. Keep up the attitude and I’m not sharing any apples with you in the glen.”