21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

M en made zero sense to Cyril.

Zero. Fucking. Sense.

And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was unreasonably hot and flustered. Or that she didn’t think twice about holding onto Mikael’s jacket like it was the fucking shore in a storm.

After Mikael spent the entire damn week of training pretending she didn’t exist, Cyril made peace with the fact that he hated her after she’d handed his ass to him in front of the guards. She earned that hate thoroughly.

But now? She was con-fucking-fused.

Why would he sweep in like a white knight to rescue someone he hated from the company of a creepy old man? It would’ve been far easier to let her suffer.

Cyril would have, if the tables were turned.

Or maybe this was just some backhanded way of reminding her she would never command the same sort of authority he did, or invoke that same look of fear in someone’s eyes.

Would he have danced with her, though, if that was the case? The two songs Mikael swept her through with shocking ease felt decidedly friendly . Hells, his entire demeanor even felt a little…flirty? Not like she had enough experience to say for certain.

“Drink.”

Cyril blinked at Mikael as he shoved a glass of wine into her hand.

Chilled wine.

She could’ve groaned at the first refreshing sip that hit her lips if she hadn’t watched the prince throw back his entire glass in one go.

Mikael watched her expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re in such a hurry for,” she grumbled, taking another slow sip.

This dinner had to be hours from ending. Cyril wasn’t convinced that shooting back an entire glass of wine every time she was thirsty would do her any favors come morning.

“One more dance and I’ll get us both out of here.”

Well, if that was the case.

Cyril drained her glass and left Mikael to follow her as she trudged back through mingling courtiers, right past a group of women who gestured far too broadly as they spoke.

She side-stepped as a hand laden with glittering rings came flying in her direction, but her gods damned dress. The prince’s sudden grip on her waist was the only thing that stopped her from careening right into another guest.

Mikael didn’t let her go for the rest of the trip to the dance floor.

They’d just missed the start of another song but slipped back into the pairs with only a couple of annoyed looks. One hand settled on his shoulder, the other in his hand, and they fell back in step with ease.

A slower tempo this time, but Cyril didn’t mind. It gave her a chance to take a glance around the room, looking and looking and looking—

“Your uncle’s gone, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

Cyril didn’t mean to glare at the prince. But she did, briefly, before scanning the crowd again.

Mikael chuckled as he said, “I’m serious. Saw him leave with, ah…”

She cut him another narrowed glance.

“ Who did he leave with?”

It wasn’t Lars or Runa, who she could see chatting with a couple at their table. The crown prince and his wife weren’t at their table anymore, but she doubted Dion would have left with the reserved pair.

If that meant the rest of her uncles had come back and Dion thought they could all slip away unnoticed, she’d have a bone to pick with all of them.

“Ah, well…” A wry, uncomfortable smile pulled at his lips. “A couple of ladies.”

A shudder rippled through her.

Of course, that would be the one reason he’d up and leave Cyril to fend for herself. Ren was right when he said Dion would fuck anything that—

“Ask me something.”

Cyril blinked up at Mikael. “Excuse me?”

“Aren’t rogues supposed to be good at gathering intel?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“They— we are.”

“Then why haven’t you asked me anything?”

“Why haven’t I ?” she scoffed.

“Look, Cyril. You’re uncomfortable, and it’s making me uncomfortable,” he said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “So change the topic, ask me something.”

Cyril rolled her eyes.

This felt awfully reminiscent of that awful dinner on her first night in Reykr. At least he wasn’t trying to ask her questions this time.

Mikael spun her away as she thought, that distracting blue gaze on her the entire time. He drew her back faster than she expected, though, and she landed with a quiet oof against his chest.

“Why don’t you wear your hair down?” Cyril blurted out with little thought, if only to smother the awkwardness bubbling up from having her hand splayed center-mass on his chest. She slid her fingers across his well-tailored dress uniform to settle back on his shoulder.

He raised a brow at her, face laden with amusement.

“That’s your question? About my hair ?”

“I, well…”

In hindsight, that was a stupid thing to ask.

Like his appearance was something she just sat around thinking about…

Well, maybe she had a few times. Especially over the last week. But he didn’t need to know that, and she was going to run with this.

Cyril straightened herself up a bit and, matter-of-factly, said, “I just don’t understand men who keep their hair long and never wear it down.”

“Honestly? It’s mostly to spite my father.” That was logical. Sort of. “I think he’d prefer me clean-cut like Astor is. I know Ezra would, too.”

“Ah.”

Cyril was well acquainted with those sorts of familial conflicts, though with the opposite outcome. She’d always wanted to keep her hair short, but Dion insisted it suited her better long, and she gave up arguing with him about it years ago.

“I hope you’re not planning on asking about my hobbies again,” she said.

Mikael laughed loudly enough that a couple to their right shot over an unimpressed glance. His canines were a hopelessly distracting thing as he grinned down at her and started leading her off of the dance floor.

That third dance came and went, and she hardly even processed it.

“Oh, no .” He shook his head. “I’m confident now all you do for fun is beat the shit out of fully grown men.”

Cyril smiled.

“I ride, too.”

Mikael half-rolled his eyes. “Of course. And you learn ancient languages in your free time. A woman of culture, I get it,” he teased as he tugged her through the crowd. “Just one slight detour, and then we’ll both be free. Play along.”

Play along ? Cyril noticed he wasn’t taking them straight to the main doors, but she hadn’t the faintest idea where—

Cyril swore quietly as she plowed right into Mikael’s back again .

The insufferable arse walked right into someone, and…

Oh.

Oh .

That someone, who she soon discovered was Councilor Mathias, had red wine spilled down the front of his green and gold doublet. Wide-eyed and a little red in the face, he stammered up at the prince. The woman who took his now empty wine glass from him failed at hiding the wild amusement on her face.

“Gods. Sorry, Councilor Mathias, didn’t even see you there.”

Either Mikael was a terrible liar, or he didn’t give two shits about getting in trouble. She didn’t know him well enough to decide.

The councilor leveled an unimpressed glare at him.

“Watch where you are going, Commander. This isn’t the barracks.”

Mikael chuckled. It almost came across as a little embarrassed. Almost .

“That it isn’t. My apologies, it won’t happen again,” he said as he tugged Cyril in front of him. His hands smoothed over her shoulders and down her arms in a far friendlier way than she had been ready for. A rush of heat bloomed straight up her chest. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Cyril wants to… turn in early . Have a good evening, Councilor.”

“Play along,” Mikael had said, not knowing Cyril didn’t have the first fucking clue on how to handle even subtle displays of affection in public.

But to insinuate that they were leaving to do what? Go to bed together ?

Gods help her.

At least the flush in her cheeks was genuine as she plastered a smile on her face and looked from Mikael to the councilor, who must have been as red as she felt.

“Goodnight, Councilor Mathias,” she said softly, like a lady should, with a dip of her head.

He stammered something in response—pleasantries, she hoped—but Mikael already had his hand on her back and was steering her straight towards the doors. The prince seemed like he was getting a little overly comfortable in the way he handled her, and Cyril…well, she didn’t hate the implication of that.

Maybe it meant that the second round of grappling wasn’t off the table.

The blast of cool air that hit her when they emerged into the atrium felt like a gift from the gods. Quiet, deserted, and refreshing—it was everything that the state ballroom wasn’t.

“Thank you, again,” she said, before Mikael could tease or goad her about anything else. Because she was sure he was about to, with that wry smile and flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“You didn’t have to help me, and I…” Gods, she was bad at this. “I appreciate that you did.”

Mikael only nodded, and Cyril let slip a quiet breath of relief. A breath that she sucked back in when his eyes dropped to her skirt and he tipped his head thoughtfully.

“I don’t mean any offense, but…” He stifled a chuckle. “Can you manage the stairs on your own in that thing?”

Cyril’s eyes flared—she hadn’t thought about that. Dion was there to keep her steady on the way down, and going up was always more of a pain in the ass.

“Ah…” Cyril grabbed a handful of her skirts, giving them a test lift. Fucking heavy , but she’d manage if she went slow. “I think so?”

Mikael couldn’t have looked any further from convinced.

He gestured to the stairs and said, “After you.”

A team effort, then.

At the base of the stairs, she gathered as much of her skirts up into her arms as she could manage—the least ladylike thing she’d done all evening—and was immediately thankful for the prince’s help. He grabbed a handful of the back, and most of the weight of the oversized bustle, and followed behind Cyril as she took one cautious step at a time.

“Are you going to the barracks?” she asked when they neared the top and every ounce of her attention wasn’t tied up in not eating a stair.

“I am. The company is a bit more…laid back than the ballroom.”

Cyril fully understood that.

Of all the areas and outbuildings she visited so far on the grounds, the barracks reminded her most of home.

Noisy, busy, and built almost entirely of dark, worn wood. There was a sort of liveliness there that came from people who knew each other for years, and trusted each other with their lives. Even only being in Reykr for a few weeks now, the time she’d spent in the barracks made her realize how much she missed the guild.

At the top of the stairs, Mikael set her skirt down and let her straighten herself out before he said, “You’ll manage from here?”

“I will, thank you.” Cyrill nodded and she should’ve stopped there. Instead, foolishly, she asked, “Is it just guards who go to the barracks at night, or…?”

He gave her a tight smile.

“Just guards, I’m afraid.”

And now Cyril felt like an idiot. Of course it was only guards who went to the barracks at night to unwind. Why would they want anyone else there? She knew the rogues back home wouldn’t.

It just stung a little how quickly Mikael shut that train of thought down, like he had thought she might ask him that and decided well in advance he wanted nothing to do with that.

“Of course.” She plastered another smile on. “Have a good night, Mikael.”

Mika wasn't even halfway back down the stairs when his idiocy slammed into him as hard as Cyril had.

He cursed and bounded back up the stairs two at a time.

As half-assed and indirect as it was, that had been Cyril’s attempt at seeing if she could come to the barracks. If she could spend time with him , if he read into it a little too far. And he’d crushed her hope without even a second thought.

She tossed a door fucking wide open for him, and he slammed it right in her face. No wonder she thought he hated her when this was how he treated her on instinct.

Stupid stupid stupid …

The guards standing watch at the doors to the residences gave Mikael an amused look as he slipped past them and down the hall.

Just in time to see Cyril’s door shut.

He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

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.