20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

I t shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Runa knew the timings of a state dinner inside and out. She'd likely hosted hundreds by now. But it still impressed Cyril that the entire ballroom dimmed only moments after she finished her chocolate and raspberry dessert tart.

The fae lights that filled the room dimmed into more of an intimate glow, and the clatter of cutlery and plates gave way to a slow buildup of soft music from the quartet. As the volume built, tables emptied. Some guests flitted around the room to socialize, while others paired off and worked their way to the dance floor.

Despite Dion’s half-plea to mingle , dancing or chatting with anyone was the last thing Cyril felt like doing. He tried to point out some moon-fae nobility to her, specifically a few daughters of ministers of this or that. But her uncle knew full well there was no recovering this night for her after the abysmal turn their meal took, on the heels of their earlier conversation.

Thankfully, a table of wine and sparkling potations set up near the expansive windows at the back of the ballroom served as the perfect escape as Dion started his lordly mingling.

She could listen to the quartet and laughter of the dance floor, watch the fae lights as they bobbed out in the gardens, and sip her wine in peaceful solitude.

“Lady Cyril?”

Her shoulders sagged.

Not even five fucking minutes.

Cyril plastered a polite smile on her face and turned around.

“Councilor Mathias.” She dipped her chin, sidestepping away from the table. “The white wine is lovely.”

She fucking despised prim and cordial conversation, and gods help them both if he was coming back for a second round of debate about the question of her race. Enduring Dion’s wrath wasn’t something she usually ever wanted to do, but she wasn’t above causing a scene now.

There was an entire table of drinks within arm’s reach, after all.

Mathias offered her a smile that didn’t even reach his eyes and made her stomach tighten in unease.

From across the table, she hadn’t noticed how brutally crooked his nose was—like he had broken it many, many times—or just how little warmth lived in the darks of his eyes. He was an old fae, too, based on the deep-set creases lining his face.

“I had hoped to take a moment of your time if you are not otherwise occupied?”

“Just admiring the view.” Cyril gestured to the windows and the dim glow of the gardens beyond. Her cheeks already hurt from her forced, sickly-sweet smile.

Mathias looked out to the garden for a long minute before he turned back to her and said, “I had the pleasure of meeting your mother when she last visited Reykr.”

That…wasn’t what Cyril expected at all.

“You did?”

He nodded.

“She was such a striking woman and spoke with such kindness.” Mathias chuckled, and the noise made Cyril’s skin crawl. “I was completely taken aback to see how much of her beauty you have inherited.”

And just like that, Cyril knew where this conversation was heading. She’d been through it enough at parties back home.

“That is kind of you to say,” she said softly. Just like her damn governess always told her to do. “You met my father too, then?”

“Mm, yes.”

The councilor was clearly uninterested in that.

Exactly where she thought this was going, and she needed Dion now .

Cyril scanned the room as innocuously as she could, desperate to pick out his red and gold sash. She found him a half dozen tables away, watching her with a look of curiosity. He simply shook his head when she held his gaze, pleading wordlessly for an intervention.

Fucker.

“I’m often told I have my father’s eyes.” Cyril feigned some demure, ladylike smile, despite the way her palms began sweating. Mathias’ attention dipped to her chest, then back to her face for the second or third time.

His eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps, but I think your mother’s beauty truly shines above all else in you. You certainly inherited all of her most pleasing assets.”

Not even a half hour ago her uncle was ready to throttle this man's sister-in-law, and now this was alright? If Dion felt like standing there and letting this reprehensible old man ogle her, Cyril would take matters into her own hands.

“You’re too kind, Councilor Mathias.” Cyril grabbed a second glass of wine from the table. Hopefully, the flush staining her cheeks and chest passed for nothing more than shyness and not simmering rage. “If you’ll excuse me, my uncle—”

He stepped in front of her.

“I assume you have no shortage of suitors to entertain back in Helia? It must devastate them for you to be away.” Mathias grasped her elbow, and Cyril went stiff. His hand felt like fucking ice .

“Ah, well.” Cyril forced a laugh. She’d never entertained a suitor once in her entire damned life and planned on keeping it that way. “It can be busy from time to time. Really, though, I should be—”

“Have you any interest in entertaining suitors during your stay here?” The councilor still had a grip on her forearm, his broken and yellowed nails pressing into her flesh.

Cyril was about five seconds away from doing something really fucking stupid.

“That is not my decision to make, Councilor, you see—”

An indignant noise left Cyril’s mouth as a hand slipped around her waist and splayed far too comfortably—and low —across her stomach. Wine sloshed against the rims of the glasses in both her hands as she staggered and Councilor Mathias dropped her arm.

This was it.

She was going to cause a fucking scene .

Moon-fae were pigs, every damn—

A swath of auburn hair fell into her periphery.

“ Terribly sorry ,” Mikael murmured against her ear, quiet enough that only she would hear. He tugged her back against his body, all warmth and hard muscle.

Councilor Mathias paled and put plenty of distance between them.

“Commander,” he said flatly.

Cyril must have looked like a bewildered animal, blinking wordlessly up at the prince as he straightened up. It was a blessing she was already flush from her near outburst when he arrived, because the heat spreading from the press of Mikael’s hand felt like a fucking brand. Cyril was certain she was on the verge of combusting.

“Councilor Mathias,” Mikael started, his voice low and authoritative like she’d only heard during basic training. Cyril wasn’t sure why, but her knees felt a little weak. “One would think you intended on hogging Lady Cyril all to yourself this evening.”

“Ah, well…” Councilor Mathias cleared his throat.

“I hope you don’t mind me stealing her away.” Mikael took the full glass of wine from her hand and shot it back in one go. He jerked his chin at the half-full one in her other hand, and Cyril followed suit. “I promised the lady three dances tonight, you see, and she’ll have me by the balls if she doesn’t get them. Not in a way I’d enjoy, either.”

Cyril shot him an incredulous look, and the insufferable prince grinned at her, a wild flash of those gleaming canines.

The councilor eyed Cyril and Mikael for a moment before mumbling something that sounded awfully like fucking prince , and slipping into the crowd.

Mikael was out of her space in an instant, and a rush of air left Cyril’s lungs.

She was going to feign illness if another one of these dinners came up, lest another slimy, lecherous—

“Is that what my mother had made for you?” The prince’s voice lost its honed edge, dripping with some sort of boyish amusement now.

Cyril stared down at her skirts, trying to smooth down some of the tulle poufs. “I… Yes,” she sighed. “For what it’s worth, she’s not happy with it either.”

“It’s certainly something,” he mused before he turned and glanced out at the crowd. Looking for people he could tolerate, she was sure.

Truthfully, Cyril was okay if Mikael slipped away and left her to go cool off somewhere quiet and by herself. The gardens seemed fucking perfect , and she could probably sneak back to her room through the pathways and side doors.

But after the prince’s glacial eyes scanned the room for a long moment, he turned back to her and said, “Now, about those three dances I promised, Lady Cyril.”

A lopsided smile crept over his face as he extended his open hand.

“You—you can’t be…” She blinked at his hand, holding her own tight to her chest. “Are you serious?”

He leaned back into her space and whispered, “Our dear friend the councilor hasn’t stopped watching. It’s probably best if we keep up appearances.”

Cyril groaned.

Against her better judgment, she set her hand in Mikael’s and followed his lead.

Mikael wasn’t sure what had compelled him to come to Cyril’s aid when he spotted her in that gods awful dress, cornered at the wine table by that damned councilman. After she reveled in embarrassing him in front of his guards, the least he could have done was let her stew in her discomfort a bit longer.

And sure, Mathias was notorious for being a lecherous old creep, but he knew firsthand Cyril could handle that on her own. Hells, it might have made for one interesting evening if the old man tried to push his luck with her any further.

There was something about the look in her eyes, though, when Matthias grabbed her that had Mikael moving across the floor before he could even think twice about it.

Protectprotectprotectprotectprotect…

He’d process the alarming nature of that consuming train of thought another time. Alone, and with just enough alcohol to drown it out of existence.

The least he could do now was enjoy the fruits of his labor.

As Mikael led her through the crowd and slipped them into a spot amongst the dancing pairs, Cyril didn’t say a word.

It was almost disappointing.

No snide jab or backhanded remark, not even as he settled his hand on the small of her back and eased them into the first few steps. She just set her hand on his shoulder, turned her attention to the side, and followed his lead.

Fucking hells.

She played the part of a demure, well-trained lady flawlessly.

What a deceptive creature.

Her hand felt so small in his, her frame so delicate and feminine held up against his. But now he knew that was a body built of lean, practical muscle, and she could wield every fiber to her advantage.

Not at all surprising, in hindsight, that the woman raised by an entire guild of rogues would not be what she appeared.

His mother may have had a point.

Cyril murmured something as he drew her back from a twirl, and Mikael blinked. The sweep and flow of the layers of her skirt had him far too distracted as he guided her around.

“Say that again?”

Cyril sighed.

“I said thank you.”

“Oh, you are very welcome.” Mikael almost forgot how they’d ended up there. “Councilor Mathias has a taste for beautiful women, and the younger, the better. His hands also seem to have a habit of wandering to places they shouldn’t be, if you didn’t notice the state of his nose.”

Cyril looked up at him for the first time since they started dancing and amusement sparkled in the wild, sun-spun gold of her eyes.

She loosed a breathy little laugh. “I wondered.”

He offered her a grin as he twirled her away again, this time drawing her in with her back to his chest.

“What did he want from you?”

“To know if I was entertaining suitors ,” Cyril said with no small amount of disgust. She stumbled a step, feet bumping against his, and cursed quietly.

“That bad?” Mikael chuckled.

Either that or she wasn’t as skilled a dancer as he assumed she would be.

Her eyes darted up for a breath before she looked back ahead, just a flicker of the faintest hint of the fire he saw when she royally kicked his ass.

“I almost threw my drink.”

“Don’t make me regret coming to your rescue now. The guards would’ve paid a boatload of coppers to see that.”

Cyril huffed a breath. He felt her tension ease, a little more fluidity in her step as she turned back to face him.

“He met my mother, apparently,” she said, with a softness and hesitancy that caught him off guard. “Sounds like he had a thing for her, too.”

From the corner of his eye, Mikael watched her nose wrinkle as the disgusting notion of it all settled into her face.

He didn’t blame her.

But selfishly, and maybe a bit of the wine speaking, he wanted to see her smile again. Not polite and reserved, either. No, he wanted to see the shit-eating grin Cyril wore when she kicked his ass, or like she did every time the other rogues were around.

Some desperately waving part of his subconscious knew this meant he was completely and utterly fucked, that he was in so far over his head. But he shoved it down with all the other bullshit he’d deal with another day.

Or never.

“Maybe she gave him one of those kinks in his nose?”

A quiet snort left her. Almost better than a smile.

“My father, more like. Dion says he was the one with a temper.”

Gods damn.

Mikael didn’t even want to imagine how hot-headed of a man her father was if Dion said that. Her uncle had one of the shortest fuses he’d ever encountered. Maybe it was for the best that her father…

Focus .

Make the damn woman smile.

Mikael leaned further into her space and, in as quiet of a scandalized tone as he could manage, said, “A Rhodea with a temper? I’d never believe that.”

Her eyes shot up to him, a flicker of molten gold, and her lips quirked. He almost had her.

“Shocking, I know”—Cyril looked back over his shoulder. Or tried to, at least. She didn’t quite have the height for it—“with how level-headed my uncle and I are.”

“Mm, of course. Just like how neither of you are combative, right?”

Her cheeks dimpled, and the corners of her eyes lifted—there it was.

“Exactly.”

Mikael chuckled and spun her away again.

But as he drew her back, the quartet eased into something slower than Mikael wanted to navigate, and getting his hands off Cyril, even for a minute, felt prudent.

“Let's get a drink,” he said, and her eager nod was a relief.

After he guided her off the dancefloor, Mikael walked ahead of Cyril, parting the crowd of congregating nobility. He almost tripped when he felt Cyril's hand brush his back and grab his jacket.

Completely and utterly fucked.