17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

H er ass tingled with pinpricks and the ache of that morning’s run had settled fully into her legs, but Cyril watched, and watched, and watched as the guards worked their recruits through hand-to-hand drills.

Grappling and disarming. Where to and not to punch. How to pin and hold.

All afternoon, the entire arena echoed with shouts of profanities and laughter, and Cyril would be lying if she said she wasn’t pissed this was where Mikael drew the line for her. From spending all of her time training with men much larger than her in Helia, she had developed a useful set of skills. Ones that she would have enjoyed being able to impart to a few of the female recruits.

From her periphery, she saw the arrogant prick of a prince make his way along the edge of the arena. Coming to tell her to leave, no doubt, and maybe to never come back.

She stood and leaned back against the wall.

Mikael was silent as he came to a stop beside her, hands clasped behind his back like usual, his entire body drawn into a tight line. It was like she wasn’t even there, with how his attention never left the trainees.

“Yes, Your Highness?” Cyril drawled, turning her own eyes back across the arena.

He sighed.

“If I came off as rude earlier, I apologize.” Mikael’s tone was forced, as if apologizing was the least natural thing he’d ever done. “These early days of training are crucial to the long-term success of our recruits, and I have immensely high expectations of my guards during it.”

That much was obvious.

“I can see that,” was all Cyril mustered back.

There wasn’t a fucking chance she would give him the satisfaction of knowing she appreciated the apology, and the way he turned his attention to her sent any budding sarcastic remark she had skittering.

Cyril forced herself to look back out to all the training pairs, working their way through flows and moves. A few were wrapping up, limping, and hobbling back into the barracks.

“I was also informed,” he continued a bit more quietly, despite Cyril being certain their conversation should have been over, “that you are under the impression that I hate you?”

His words hung.

Cyril barely knew Kaia, but she was going to fucking strangle the woman after this.

Mikael sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”

“Is there a reason I should think otherwise?”

“It’s hard to hate someone I know so little about.” From her periphery, he shrugged. “Are you difficult to talk to? Yes. Are you abrasive? Incredibly. But I do not know you well enough to hate you.”

“But you know enough to think I’m, oh, what was it…” Cyril tapped a finger on her lip. “ Unremarkable ?”

She shouldn't have said anything at all. Just took his entirely forced apology and left. But if he already thought she was abrasive…

“Ah.” He nodded slowly, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Well, in the future, I’ll be explicitly clear about the difference between an intelligence briefing and my personal opinions. It may come as a surprise to you, Lady Cyril, but they are not the same.”

Enough of the guards were in earshot now, making their way over after sending the rest of their trainees in for the day, that Cyril decided to not indulge him with another response.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” he asked, like they’d just been talking about the weather.

“It depends.” Her voice was quiet as she rocked back and forth on her heels, the picture of casual ease. Kaia smiled and waved as she made her approach with a few others. Cyril waved back with a smile as she muttered, “If I’m just going to be forced to sit on the sidelines again, I’m better off trying to spend the day with Dion and the others.”

Cyril looked up at Mikael just in time to see the corner of his lip quirk.

Then, just loud enough for the others to hear, she added, “I’m happy to come back tomorrow, and for the rest of the week, if you’ll let me take part in all the activities.”

A sigh and sidelong glance told her the prince was fully aware of what Cyril was playing at.

“Come on, boss!” Kaia pleaded, hands clasped in front of her. “We never have enough women around, and capable ones at that. You know…” She tapped her cheek. “I think she might even give you a run for your money if it came down to it.”

The frustration that settled into Mikael’s features brought no small amount of amusement to Cyril. Like he, too, knew that Kaia was entirely correct.

“This isn’t a group decision, Gatlin. I will be the one who—”

“Kaia has a point on both fronts,” Ari mused from where he leaned against the wall.

Gunner nodded alongside him. “I’d pay good money to see the two of you spar, I’m sure it’d be a hell of a show.”

Mikael clenched his jaw, just the living and breathing embodiment of exasperation, but Cyril cut in before he had a chance to say anything.

“How much money is good money ? More than you already bet on me today, or…?” She raised her brow.

“Well, I…” Ari looked away, coughing quietly, but surprise flared in Gunner’s eyes. The commander didn’t look quite so amused.

“You’re all going to drive me fucking mental. You included.” Mikael cast Cyril a pointed glare. “There will be no betting. No sparring. No group—”

“What if I have a proposition for you?”

Mikael groaned. “Can I not finish speaking?”

“Thought you’d just want to protect your pride.” Cyril shrugged. “But if you don’t want to…”

“My pride ?” His expression hardened, and Cyril knew her bait landed perfectly.

She was certain she had an ally in Kaia now, possibly with Ari and Gunner too if their keen interest was any indicator, and the temptation to rile Mikael up with them was far too good to pass up.

“Correct.” She nodded. “You and I grapple. If you win, which I don’t see why the Commander of the King's Guard wouldn’t…then I won’t come back. But if I win, I’ll be back bright and early every day. For all activities.”

Kaia let out a low whistle.

The faintest hint of consideration passed through his face as Mikael studied her. He shook it away. “No, Cyril. I’m twice your size, and—”

“So are my uncles!” Cyril scoffed. “Ren sounds like a fucking tree when he goes down, but I still know how to get him on his ass.” She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re going to need a better cop-out than that.”

“If I hurt you…”

“Do your worst. It’s not like my bones will break.”

Mikael blinked. “ What? ”

Cyril waved her hand. She was sure the uncanny flexibility of nymph bones was common knowledge. “Try again. Or are you just worried I might actually knock you on your ass?”

“No, that is not what I am worried about—”

“Well, if you aren’t worried…” Cyril swept an arm out to the arena, a wild grin on her face. “Then what are we waiting for, Commander Kallan?”

Mikael’s shoulders sagged, and he scrubbed his palms over his face—Cyril knew she won, and the giddy excitement seeped in before he even opened his mouth.

Was it the smartest bet she’d ever made? Not at all.

But it would be the most entertainment she’d had in a while.

“ Gods , every single fucking one of you is difficult,” he grumbled. “Fine. We go wrap up with the recruits and then…” A sigh of disbelief left him. “And then Cyril and I will spar.”

“So, uh, you think you can take him, hey?”

Cyril blinked up at Kaia, who came to wait out in the arena.

“I do. And about twenty minutes ago, you seemed quite confident in me too.”

Kaia laughed nervously and said, “Well, I mean, I’m sure you’re capable. But Mikael, he’s—”

“Bigger than me? Stronger than me?” She scoffed and leaned over her leg, wincing at the pull in the muscle. Stretching a bit while Mikael and a few of the guardsmen had gone to wrap up with the trainees seemed prudent. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

The look Kaia fixed her with spoke of nothing but conflict.

“Just try to not get hurt, alright? You definitely won’t be coming back to do anything with us if that happens.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cyril grumbled.

Would it kill people to believe in her capabilities once in a while?

It was infuriating how much easier her life would have been if she wasn’t a woman. No one would bat an eyelash, she was sure, if it were Dion or Bron here challenging the prince to a friendly physical wager. But gods forbid her and her feeble female body be capable of anything…

She ignored the hand Kaia offered to help her off the ground as Mikael and the others entered the arena again. If Kaia wanted to waver in her support, Cyril couldn’t be bothered with her.

Mikael shook his head at her when they met in the middle, but Cyril just asked, “Any rules?”

“No weapons.”

“ Weapons? ”

Mikael’s eyes dipped down to her boots.

Oh .

Cyril laughed. “ Those .”

She eased out the thin blades tucked in the leather along the sides of her calves and tossed them over to where the rest of the guards gathered in a group.

“Any other rules?”

He leaned in, his eyes flickering with a mischievous glint, and said, “Try not to be too pissed with me when you lose, alright?”

Oh. She was going to enjoy this.

Cyril backed a few healthy steps away from Mikael. She lowered her center of gravity, shifting her weight from side to side until she felt comfortable and grounded. Basic, reliable defensive stance.

Mikael did the same.

“Ready?” she asked.

The prince only nodded, and they started their dance.

Slow, measured steps at first, as they circled each other.

Assessing. Observing.

Every time Cyril would shift her body with a slight movement, tension would flicker through every long line of muscle in Mikael's body. Ready to react, to strike.

He knew what he was doing, at least.

But just as Cyril assumed, the prince had no patience.

Whether he just wanted this over with, she didn’t know, but they hadn’t even circled each other twice when he moved to grab her.

And Cyril let him.

She let him grab her arm and haul her over.

Let him think he could use his weight to force her down, oblivious to the fact that this was exactly what she wanted. Taking down men this much larger than her wasn’t about overpowering them with raw strength, it was all about taking their predictability and turning it against them.

Cyril’s feet skidded across the dirt until she planted her heel and used the momentum to turn into him. Her elbow hit the center of his chest with such force that pain jolted up to her shoulder and straight down to her fingers. But Mikael released his grip on her arm and staggered back, a half-choked profanity tumbling out of him.

Fucking bullseye.

But Cyril couldn’t revel in her victory or the wild look in his eyes for long. She took a step and swung her knee, feinting for his groin—a dirty move, but one built on necessity.

As all men did by pure instinct, Mikael flinched and swatted for her leg.

Everything that came next happened as a blur, Cyril’s body operating solely on the muscle memory built on countless hours of doing exactly this. She could almost hear Bron shouting at her in her mind.

Cyril gripped Mikael’s arm, pulling him towards her.

Swung for his groin again, and did not feint this time.

When Mikael hunched over with a groan, trying to rip his arm away from her, she twisted it back as she rotated around him.

A well-placed kick dropped the distracted prince to his knees, and she wrenched his arm back at a wholly unnatural angle until he was flat on his chest in the dirt. Colorful and half-choked profanities tumbled out of him the entire way down.

Cyril held Mikael in place the best she could, with one knee pinned to his free arm and the other in the middle of his back.

She fucking did it, and the rush of adrenaline finally caught up with her.

A tightened grip on his arm and a firmer press into his back were all she could do to stop the trembling that started in her hands. Her heart raced and her skin buzzed, and this felt way too good.

“ Point fucking made, ” Mikael hissed, his cheek pressed into the dirt.

But Cyril wasn’t done with him yet.

She tangled her fingers into his hair, already half-loose from the knot he wore it in, and pulled his head back. The prince groaned as she dug her knee into his back harder than she needed to.

“What was that, Your Highness ?” she crooned. “Do you yield?”

“Yes, I fucking yield.”

He thrashed beneath her, and Cyril finally lost her grip.

She took a few scrambling steps back out of the reach of his limbs as Mikael rolled onto his back with a rumble of a groan. Covered nearly head to toe in a fine coating of the arena’s red earth, he rubbed at his chest with a grimace that put a smile on her face.

He’d feel that lovely reminder of his misjudgment for days .

Clapping and whistling erupted from the side of the arena, and Cyril had no control over the pride that swelled in her chest. It had been there, budding and flickering to life, the moment she got the prince on his knees, but it was an unrestrained beast now.

Going into this, she was quite confident holding her own was something she could handle. But taking Mikael down? Cyril hadn't been certain that was in the cards.

It was a risky, stupid gamble on her part that paid off in spades.

“What the fuck. ” Mikael sounded a shade or two away from himself again, propped up on his elbows. He looked a little amused, at least. “You fight dirty.”

“It’s the only way I know how.” Cyril shrugged, though her grin surely betrayed anything casual about her. “You’ll have to give clear rules next time.”

“Next time?” Mikael laughed dryly as he sat up fully. He rubbed at his chest and winced. “No. No, thank you. Once was plenty.”

Cyril extended a hand to help him up. The least she could do after embarrassing him so thoroughly.

“You know all my secrets now, anyway. I wouldn’t—”

A startled yelp left her as Mikael gripped her hand and hauled her down to the ground.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid .

She let her guard down for a fucking second, and he knew it.

“ Mikael! ” she half-shrieked, half-laughed as he grabbed her by the waist and tossed her like she weighed nothing. She tumbled a few feet across the arena floor, kicking up dirt and dust and swearing, before she clamored to her feet.

Mikael was already up and backing well away from her with a wolfish grin on his face, his auburn hair loose and wild. The look he fixed her with, glacial and full of challenge , sent her heart pounding in a wholly unfamiliar way.

That was the steady flow of adrenaline that had a spark of heat smoldering low in her belly, right?

“You are fucking dead ,” Cyril growled before she broke out into a run towards Mikael.

What she planned on doing when she caught him? She hadn’t thought that far. But anything seemed better than spending another second acknowledging whatever the fuck flickered to life in that moment.

Despite Cyril’s traitorous hands and mind reminding her that the prince was nothing but a tower of well-built muscle, he moved far faster than he had any right to. He took off sprinting towards the group of guards that had doubled in size since she last looked.

The sea of bodies parted, a haze of laughter and cheers, as they wove through, and Cyril finally caught up. Mikael might’ve had strength and size in his favor, but she had speed.

Cyril reached for his shirt, her fingers skimming the fabric stretched across his shoulders, and—

She slammed into his back with a soft groan. It was like hitting a fucking tree.

Breathlessly, Mikael said, “Mother.” A pause. “Dion.”

Cyril stiffened.

Oh, fucking hells.

Of course, this was how her day would end.

Cyril had kicked the prince’s ass, had all of two fucking minutes to ride that high, and now was going to be in such immeasurably deep shit. She’d spent the better part of the last week with her nose in tomes, doing everything in her power to avoid inciting another verbal lashing from Dion, and it was going to be for nothing.

As she stepped around Mikael, Cyril braced herself for the murderous look that Dion was bound to have on his face. A lecture had to be incoming about her childish behavior and—

Dion was smiling.

A wry and genuine thing that she’d seen less and less of recently.

Less surprisingly, Runa had a look of pure amusement on her face that answered any questions Cyril had about how much they witnessed.

Dion extended an arm out to her in invitation.

“When did you get back?” Cyril asked.

She was filthy as all hells, but he didn’t seem to mind as she stepped into his embrace. The subtle, clean scent of his cologne that wrapped around her was a welcome change to the dirt and sweat she’d been smelling all afternoon.

He pressed a kiss to her temple and squeezed her shoulders as he said, “Just in time to catch the show. Would’ve been sorely disappointed if I missed out on that.”

Cyril’s cheeks ran hot, and the urge to fold in on herself was strong. Her heart still raced from her victory, but toss in a hint of approval from her uncle? Too much for one day.

“That makes two of us,” Runa added. “Dion’s always bragged in his letters about how much time you’ve spent training at the guild. I’m glad to have seen it in action.”

“I—ah, well…” She cleared her throat.

A glance at Mikael showed he too looked just about as uncomfortable as Cyril felt. He stood there, his jaw tense, looking at no one in particular as he rubbed at his chest. It had to be aching just as bad as the dull throb in her elbow she could no longer ignore.

“I, for one, quite look forward to hearing all about the day over dinner.” Runa tossed a pointed glance at her son. “Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mikael replied with a tight smile.

He glanced at Cyril, opening his mouth, but he clamped it shut a moment later. The prince dipped his head instead, backing away a few steps before he turned and walked away.

Cyril blinked after him, but a gentle tug from Dion had Cyril walking with him towards the exit of the arena. Runa fell into step beside them.

“You handled yourself well out there,” Dion said quietly, and Cyril was officially fucking flustered . “Bron is going to be thrilled when he hears—”

“ GOODBYE CYRIL! WE’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW! ” Kaia hollered from across the arena.

Dion laughed as Cyril turned back to wave.

“Did my incorrigible niece make friends?” he mused.

“Ah, sort of?”

“Good.” He gave her another squeeze that had her smiling. “Once we’re back upstairs, I’ll give you some salve for your elbow.”

Cyril blinked at him. “How did you…?”

“You hit him harder than you needed to,” Dion smirked. “And I know your tells better than anyone else, kiddo.”

Gods, wasn’t that the truth.

Mikael fought a losing battle as he watched his mother, Dion, and Cyril leave the arena. He wasn’t entirely sure what the fuck just happened, but his body was making one thing painfully clear—he was into the Rhodea woman. Even with the persistent ache in his chest he was certain would be a problem for days, he couldn’t keep his damn eyes off of her.

Specifically: her legs. Her backside. Her waist and how fucking perfect the subtle curve of it had felt in his hands.

Mikael flexed his fingers, trying to shake that soft yet toned feeling.

A fruitless act.

Even though a desperately clinging sliver of rationality told him he wanted nothing to do with her, he couldn’t fucking help it. He was a hot-blooded fae male, his bed had been unusually cold as of late, and Cyril’s snug base layers left very little to his rampant imagination. He certainly wouldn’t mind her on top of him with her fingers in his hair in a decidedly different context, that was for sure.

But there was something more to it than just some simple, primal itch he desperately needed to scratch. He saw the wild flicker of heat in her eyes too. He saw the current of interest that ran through her, the way her cheeks flushed when he just looked at her.

This wasn’t simple at all. No, this was…

Mikael sighed.

Not a notion he would entertain in the slightest right now. The embarrassment of that abysmal loss had to be buried in him somewhere too, and he needed to focus on processing that blow to his ego.

Maybe resenting her a little for it while he was at it.

As Mikael walked back to the lingering guards, Byron wasted no time in looking right at him and saying, “There goes your next conquest, hey boss?”

The other few guards all chuckled. Save for Kaia, who grumbled about how disgusting they all were with clear disdain. But the gleam of metal in his periphery caught Mikael’s attention, and he glazed over the comment.

Cyril had left her boot knives in the dirt on the side of the arena. He picked them up to bring to dinner.

“I’ll bet two coppers he’s got her bent over his desk before the end of the week,” Silas said, making an overtly lewd gesture with his body.

That caught Mikael’s full attention.

He turned back to them and snarled, “Enough.”

A few of the men stilled, exchanging glances with each other. Kaia smiled.

“In case it has already slipped the empty shells of your fucking skulls,” Mikael said slowly, “that was Lady Cyril, and she is a guest of my family. Martial prowess aside, you will treat her with some respect.”

He leveled a glance with the group that left little room for argument. Amusement fizzled from faces in an instant.

“Am I understood?”

Silas and Byron both grumbled their reluctant understanding and began sauntering off into the barracks to clean up for the day. The rest of the group filed away slowly after them.

Mikael raked his hands through his hair, unsure of when it had even come undone, and started his walk back to the palace. He took the long way, and hoped it would give him plenty of time to cool off before he readied for dinner and before he would surely be stuck sitting beside Cyril for the duration of it.

His mother was a cruel and smart woman, to her credit.

And his guardsmen could piss right off.

They knew damn well he could have her bent over in whichever direction he pleased in a day or two if he worked at it. But for once in his life, he wasn’t after some petty, quick fuck from a pretty girl. Not this one, at least. Those were needs he could see tended to elsewhere.

There was something else at play with the Rhodea woman that he was far more interested in watching pan out. And his curiosity always got the best of him, for better or worse.