Page 155 of The Mercy of Dawn

He clasped Mikael on the shoulder as he walked by and gave him a knowing smile as he said, “Good luck, friend.”

He was going to need it, too.

Out in the middle of the alleyway, Cyril basked in the downpour, with her arms splayed out wide and her face upturned to the sky. She was wearing the most shit-eating grin he’d ever seen.

All Mikael could think about was the fact he had to get this woman onto a damn horse and keep her on it.

Gods help him, truly.

Chapter 37

Thankfully, faelock of the smoked variety didn’t have the same gut-turning effects that the distilled kind had. But it still left Cyril with a headache for almost three days after her trip to The Stairs with Mikael.

A trip which, much to her annoyance, she remembered abysmally little of.

The start of that night? Crystal fucking clear.

The end of that night? Fuzzy, but there. Sort of.

The entire middle of that night? She didn’t have a damn clue.

All normal, according to Mikael, and he even agreed to take her back to the club another night with the strict rule that she not ingest anything unless it came from him. Cyril was just relieved he didn’t want to delve into why she smoked it to begin with. Explaining the strange twinge of jealousy that woman had stirred up in her wasn’t a conversation she felt like navigating.

In those three days, Dion still hadn’t returned from the city, and for that she was grateful for a few reasons.

She remembered the start of that night far more clearly than she ever wanted to, and she wasn’t sure if looking her uncle in the eyes was something she could stomach.

Plus, the longer he was gone, the more time she got to spend with Mikael. Even if that meant spending her evenings getting wound up in his office after spending a few hours mingling in the barracks.

The exercise of patience was becoming exhausting.

Today though? The prince surprised her.

She had mentioned to him, entirely offhand, that she was going to give afternoon rides a go, instead of her usual early morning forays. A change to break the nagging pull that she had to lose herself in the archives all afternoon, lest Dion show up and accuse her of researching forbidden topics again.

She hadn’t expected to see him waiting for her in the stables when she wandered in after lunch.

Mikael gave her some spiel on how he wanted to ride with her so they could talk and see each other in the daylight for once. One look at the glint in his eyes when they made it to the glen told her talking would be the last thing they’d do there.

She didn’t mind.

Especially not now that she sat comfortably in his lap, her fingers carded through his hair and his lips working a steady path up her throat. They’d lasted a matter of minutes sitting under the generous shade of a white wisteria tree, talking about nothing important, before he hauled her over.

“Gods, you’re going to drive me mad,” Mikael murmured on the tail end of a breathy groan.

Cyril wasn’t shy about seeking the friction she was desperate for anymore. She would do anything to grant even a fraction of relief to the merciless, empty ache between her legs, caused entirely by Mikael.

He swore every time she did, but it never stopped him from sinking his fingers into her hips and pulling her down a little harder.

“Then do something about it.” She cupped his face in her hands, grasping onto a little current of boldness that ran through her. “Stop being a coward and touch me.”

His eyes locked on hers, the glacial blue flickering with something she couldn’t quite place.

Cyril almost thought she went too far with that.

But Mikael shifted, and she was on her back in the grass before she could process why his hand had suddenly splayed across her shoulders. His fingers started tugging at the laces of her pants, and Cyril’s breath caught in her chest.

She should have called him a coward a week ago.