28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

C yril never should have left the ground.

She should have kept her ass rooted in the grass, shuffled a few feet over to the willow tree, and slept underneath the damn thing. But no , the thought of those damned soft sheets and the bliss of her heavy duvet whisking her off to a deep, liquored sleep just had to beckon.

The moment she got upright, the entire fucking world slipped from its axis.

Her head swam.

The pathway rippled like frothy waves at low tide.

And the faelights? Fuck .

The drifting and bobbing balls of light only stirred up a sickly feeling in her stomach. Even the fucking grass wasn’t safe to look at with the way the blades eddied under the moonlight.

Cyril squeezed her eyes shut and swore.

“Yeah, I’m taking that as a no,” Mikael chuckled, and Cyril had forgotten he was even there. A graze of a touch met her back, steering her in some unknown direction. “If you don’t open your eyes though, I’m just going to carry you back.”

“Not a fucking chance.” Cyril glared at him, and the world spun a bit less.

The faelights were still untrustworthy as fuck.

Mikael stood there on the path, just a foot or two ahead, with his arm extended to her. She took a half-stumbling step and latched on to him without a second thought.

Nothing but warm, firm muscle met her when she hugged his arm to her body—entirely to steady herself, of course, even though Bron’s words lingered in her mind.

Get hammered on the solstice and get handsy with the prince .

She'd already accomplished half of that fucking well.

The getting handsy part was still something she was on the fence about. Even though technically her hands were already on him, clinging to his arm for dear life.

Now, Cyril hadn’t meant to press her cheek up to his arm and nuzzle her damn face into it. He just moved too soon, and she staggered into him on their first step. The rich, midnight blue fabric of his tunic also just happened to have a softness to it that sucked her in like a vortex.

And gods, why did he have to smell good too? It was like spring rain flooded her senses the moment she stepped into his space.

Mikael didn’t seem bothered by her clinging at least, if the half-self-satisfied grin she caught him looking down at her said much.

She had to force herself to peel her eyes away from the gleam of his canines as they caught on his lip and the entirely indecent train of thought that tumbled through her mind.

This was bad, bad news.

Cyril hadn’t felt this fucking giddy around someone since…

No.

No, no, no.

Cyril glued her eyes in front of her.

She focused on the slate and stone path as it gave way to steps and thresholds and polished moonstone, shoving that disparaging train of thought away. Right back down into the depths where it belonged.

“I’m going to pay for this tomorrow, aren’t I?” Cyril mumbled when the stretch of silence and closeness tipped into something she wasn’t sure how to handle.

“All that lockmead? Oh, yes, you are,” Mikael chuckled and patted the hand she gripped his bicep with. Her fingers flexed a bit more into his arm, entirely of their own volition. “I was going to see if you wanted to come to the barracks tomorrow night, but, well…that was before I knew you were roll around in the grass and get lost in the stars levels of inebriated.”

Cyril gaped.

“I was not rolling around in the grass, and I wasn’t lost in anything! I was just…appreciating the night and having some…quiet time. Lying down. In the grass.” Her argument wasn’t a strong one, she realized, and Mikael’s look of skepticism confirmed that. “But that’s beside the point. I can come tomorrow…if you want me to.”

Cyril hoped he did, because she was still disgruntled about not being able to go the first time he invited her. Spending all those days cooped up in the damned city of all places had done nothing to help that sentiment.

And now that she knew Dion brought her there just to keep her away from Mikael…

The nagging little urge to spend some time with the abrasive, arrogant prince evolved into a demanding beast that would not be told no under any circumstances.

The lockmead might’ve had something to do with that too…

“If by the grace of the gods you make it upright by sundown tomorrow, come and find me, please. It would astonish everyone to meet the only person to not be laid out flat on their ass for a day after getting hammered on lockmead.”

Mikael cast her a pointed look like he’d spent a few too many days flat on his ass for the same reason.

But he didn’t know Cyril well at all.

If there was one thing she’d learned how to do well back home, it was putting back liquor. Hangovers be damned, the rogues liked their potations, and the stronger the better.

“I feel like hammered is a bit of an exaggeration.” She felt pleasantly—and thoroughly —buzzed at best. At least half her wits were still hanging about somewhere inside her. Maybe.

Mikael dared to laugh at her.

“Well, if that’s the case…”

He freed his arm from the death grip she had it in and splayed a hand towards the stairs. She had no clue when they’d made it here, or how long they’d just stood here for, and paid no attention to the way her body swayed when Mikael stepped away from her.

“After you, my lady.”

Cyril was sure she scowled as she brushed past him with a couple of uneasy steps. She planted one hand on the railing, gathered a fistful of her skirt in the other, and started up the stairs one cautious step at a time.

“Are you wearing boots with your dress?” he asked, as if that was really what shocked him about her.

“I… Yes? Why wouldn’t—”

Cyril made the critical error of looking down at her riding boots, the worn brown leather on full display from her lifted skirt, and then back at Mikael. Quickly. The entire damn staircase felt like it swayed with Cyril, and her stomach lurched halfway up her throat.

“Mm, definitely not hammered,” Mikael chuckled as he splayed his hand across her upper back, mercifully steadying her. The feeling of his warm, calloused palm against her bare skin was distracting in a lovely way. “Eyes ahead, soldier, and do not look back down the damn stairs.”

Cyril wanted to argue that, purely on the principle of him thinking he could so easily tell her what to do, but she also wanted to make it to bed in one piece. With the contents of her stomach in place too.

“I like my boots,” she said after she’d pieced together enough strands of focus to climb the next few stairs. They were almost at the top, and the guarded doors to the residences were in sight. Mikael’s guiding hand hadn’t left her back, and she wasn’t mad about that in the slightest. “They’re comfortable and practical.”

Were the embroidered silk slippers they forced her to wear with fancy gowns no short few times in her life pretty to look at? Sure, she supposed, if you had nothing better to do than look at pretty things. But they never fit properly, and they always left Cyril’s feet aching by the end of the night.

Problems she never had with any of her boots.

“I wasn’t saying it’s a bad thing,” Mikael said as they crested the top stair. He offered her his arm again, and she took it gladly, threading hers through his and wrapping her hands around his bicep. “My mother wears boots all the time too, you know. I find it…endearing that you do too.”

Cyril scoffed.

Endearing? What a lousy compliment.

She hadn’t realized those words breached the confines of her mind until Mikael cast her a sidelong glance and said, “Yes, endearing . And that isn’t a bad thing either.”

He gave the guard standing watch at the residence's doors a casual nod and an easy smile, and Cyril clamped her mouth shut. The doors had only just clicked shut behind them when Mikael continued without missing a beat.

“Or would you prefer I find you off-putting? Because I’m certain you aren’t looking for compliments.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And why wouldn’t I be?”

A smile tugged at Mikael’s lips, and she desperately wished he would stop doing that. Cyril was sure she had yet to find a smile so distracting.

“Because, Lady Cyril , you get flustered whenever anyone gives them to you. I’m also confident you are aware of how good you look tonight, and don’t need me telling you that.” His gaze and that stupid, knowing smirk lingered long enough to see Cyril’s eyes go wide. “Did I miss anything?”

Did Cyril get flustered by compliments? Absolutely.

She spent her entire life being taught to be wary of unsolicited praise and flattery, and what their bearer’s true intentions might be. Even when one of her uncles dished out something in good faith, she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

Just like she wasn’t equipped to deal with Mikael’s less-than-subtle compliment in any sort of dignified way.

She knew she looked nice , of course. Her dress was flattering, and a bit of makeup never hurt anyone. Even Dion’s nonchalant words of approval had told her she looked as much when they came down to the party.

But there was a certain amount of…ardor and interest in the way Mikael said she looked good , and her entire body reacted to it. Her breath came in an unsteady wave and she warmed from head to toe. Cyril felt the overwhelming urge to be closer to him, if that was even possible with his arm hugged flush to her body.

Was this when she was supposed to tell him he looked good too?

That he always seemed to look handsome in that wild and wicked way she found herself inexplicably drawn to? It didn’t matter if he dressed in his finery and badges, or if he was mostly disheveled tracking her down in the stables. With the surety and confidence—and just a touch of arrogance—in the way he carried himself, there wasn’t a chance the prince was ignorant of any bit of it.

There was also the very real possibility that all the damn lockmead had loosened Cyril up just a hair more than she’d expected, and her mind was running freer than it had any right to.

“This is you?” Mikael asked, an abrupt alert to the fact that they were stopped in front of her door. Cyril nodded. “Do you…need anything?”

Her attention bounced between Mikael, her door, and the grip she still had on his arm. She let go of him and took a step back.

“I—uh…no, I don’t.” She swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

Cyril’s attention hooked on Mikael’s glacial eyes and her mouth went dry. Something impulsive was clawing its way up her spine.

“Of course.” Mikael dipped his head in acknowledgment, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His sudden neutrality sent a wave of unease through Cyril.

“I mean it. Thank you…for walking with me. And for keeping me company.”

For being one of only four people who seemed interested in giving her the time of day. One of only four people who attempted to acknowledge her existence outside of necessity.

“And I…”

Oh, fuck it.

Cyril’s heart felt like it was going to burst straight out of her chest as she stepped into Mikael’s space and gripped his arm, using it as leverage to lift onto the toes of her boots.

She brushed her lips against his cheek and quietly said, “Thank you.”

Even though he schooled his face into nothing but casual curiosity as fast as lightning, Cyril caught the flicker of surprise that lit up his eyes like fine blue crystal as she eased back down.

And when his arm slipped around her waist, tugging her closer? Confidence surged through Cyril in wildly unhealthy measures.

“You are very welcome, Cyril,” Mikael said softly. His gaze roamed her face, from her eyes to her mouth and back, for what felt like forever, before he added, “Is that all you want from me?”

Cyril knew if she said yes, that would be it.

The prince didn't seem like the kind of person to take what wasn't willingly offered. Mikael would probably bid her goodnight and they’d have an awkward encounter in a day or two at dinner. Cyril could handle that, of course, but it wasn’t what she wanted.

So she met his gaze and shook her head, riding that wave of confidence.

She pressed a finger firmly against his chest, where his shirt dipped low and tempting, and said, “No, it’s not. But if you want more—”

Wolfish was the only way to describe Mikael’s smile as he gripped her waist with the warm and broad span of his hand and silenced her with well-practiced ease.

It was the best bad decision Cyril ever made.

Mikael notched his fingers under Cyril’s chin and tipped that blissfully intrigued face of hers up, pressing his lips to hers far gentler than he wanted to.

He’d give her the decency of a chance to change her mind, to back away if she didn’t want this.

But Cyril didn’t back away from him.

No, the woman was fucking eager .

She pressed the lithe warmth of her body flush to him, and her fingers found purchase in his shirt. The quiet, contented noise that slipped out of her almost brought Mikael to his knees.

Not that he would mind being there… But one thing at a time.

Her lips were so soft it was almost criminal, and the deceptively sweet taste of lockmead still lingered on them. The damn Rhodea woman was intoxicating, consuming even, and Mikael didn’t even try to stop himself from getting swept away.

He kissed her like she was the last breath of air for a drowning man.

Cyril’s wandering hands did nothing to temper his fleeting rationale, and Mikael’s burgeoning need grew at a frantic pace.

Her fingers left near branding paths as she worked a slow, methodical path from his chest out to his shoulders and back down to his stomach. He slipped out a breathy groan when those adventurous fingers grazed his hips and a crack of want ran right through him.

Cyril’s smile against his lips did nothing to help that.

The temptation to take that hand and show her precisely where he wanted to feel those lithe fingers of hers nearly drowned out any other thought in his mind.

If it weren’t for the echo of a quiet, pointed cough serving as a startling reminder they were in the middle of the fucking hallway , Mikael may have very well followed through.

And it was a quiet, feminine cough that he’d recognized anywhere.

He’d spent his entire twenty-seven years of life hearing his mother use it to get a message across, after all.

It took every ounce of his willpower to break the consuming kiss that Cyril showed no interest in ending, and rest his forehead against hers. Both of their breaths came in ragged, uneven bursts.

“Cyril, we should…”

Hells, he didn’t know what they should do, or what she really wanted, but they couldn’t stay there, and his decision-making skills were not in their prime that late into solstice.

“Come inside.”

Cyril half spoke over him, already fumbling for the door handle. She grabbed his hand and tugged him into her room before he even processed the wild implication of every threshold they were crossing.

It hit Mikael, though, when the lock clicked behind him and he turned to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, just a strand of gold left clinging to them, and she had her kiss-swollen bottom lip drawn between her teeth.

Mikael’s blood ran south at an alarming rate.

He hadn’t even taken a breath before Cyril was reaching for him again, pulling his mouth back to hers. She wielded a soft, needy whine like it was a gods damned weapon.

Mikael gave in to the consuming urge to feel her hair slip through his fingers and threaded them through the silky strands at her nape, gaining every bit of leverage that he could. His other hand found its home anchored across the soft swell of her backside, pulling every damn inch of that deceptive little frame against him.

He’d been a fool to think they wouldn’t end up here.

There was no denying the initial bodily interest he had in Cyril, the day she showed up on their doorstep, armed to the teeth. But he wrote that off as circumstantial, a byproduct of weeks spent cooped up at the mountain base.

Then she beat the hells out of him.

He wondered if he’d misunderstood the glint of wild excitement in her eyes that day, if his hot blood had just clouded the reality of a woman raised to fight.

But the clarity of it was painfully obvious now.

Every time she flushed or stammered or went downright fucking awkward in his presence, it wasn’t because of repulsion or disinterest.

No, that wasn’t it at all.

It was because of that same itching curiosity he tried to drown in the barracks with liquor and with warm, willing bodies in his bed. How she’d kept her own sanity? Mikael had no fucking idea. He was tempted to ask if she’d thought of—

Cyril’s hand slid over the front of his pants, over where he was already half-hard and straining against his laces, and thoughts vacated Mikael.

Well, all but one.

A ragged groan left him, and he swore against her lips.

“Bed?” she breathed with a hint of what seemed like uncertainty, like she didn’t understand just how badly he ached under her touch.

Bed, wall, floor. It didn’t matter to him.

“Lady’s choice,” he said with a smile, and Cyril’s nod was all he needed.

A startled gasp of a laugh left her as Mikael slid his hands down the backs of her thighs and hauled her up, dress and all. Her legs felt like they were crafted just to be wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, and those damn fingers in his hair.

She made quick work of the leather band that kept it all tied back and raked her nails across his scalp. Mikael was sure he’d never made a more indignant noise in his life. It was worth it though, for the sultry, satisfied smirk that crept across her face as he laid her out on the bed and kneeled over top of her.

With her blush-stained cheeks and heavy, hooded eyes, Cyril looked like a lewd vision made flesh, framed by a sweeping spray of silky black. A thing of beauty, to marvel at and appreciate and drink in.

But Mikael just wanted her out of that damn dress.

He tipped her head back, baring the full span of her throat, and pressed his lips to the delicate flesh at the base of her jaw. His fingers found the front closure of her bodice—a fucking wondrous invention—and made quick work of loosening the laces holding it together.

He nestled his face into the crook of Cyril’s neck, breathing in the heady undertone of cinnamon and something sweet that rolled off her skin.

Mikael wasn’t sure something so tantalizing had ever filled his lungs, and the urge to nip and graze his teeth across her flesh was consuming. But the likelihood she’d ever been with a full-blooded moon-fae seemed slim, and Mikael had zero interest in scaring her off right out of the gate.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, if only to occupy his mouth.

Cyril tensed, fingers digging into his shoulder. Something akin to surprise had settled into her features when he glanced at her.

Just like that, she validated his suspicion that the men of the south were selfish bastards.

“I…I don’t know,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to be shy with me.”

Mikael leveled his gaze with hers, just a sliver of sun-spun gold left clinging to the darkness she looked at him with.

There was a flicker of something uneasy there, so Mikael kissed her.

Soft and slow, but backed by restrained desperation. He wedged his thigh between hers too, and just about came fucking undone when she ground down against him and groaned.

“I promise you, I will enjoy anything you ask of me,” he said roughly as he broke away from her and dipped his head.

“If you want control”—his lips met the base of her jaw—“or praise, or pain”—again, to the hollow of her throat—“I will gladly give you those. Gods, if you just want me to put you on your knees—” A final press of his lips, between the loose ribbons draped across the snow-white expanse of her sternum. “ Or have me spend all night on mine, I will be thrilled. Just tell me what you want.”

Mikael wasn’t a hard man to please, truthfully.

There wasn’t much he disliked receiving, even less so with giving, and he fucking ached . All he wanted was to taste her or fuck her. Gods, both if she felt so inclined.

“Mikael, I don’t know what I want. I…”

Her chest heaved with a shaky breath and Mikael eased back up beside her, trailing a gentle touch up her side.

So she was shy in the bedroom.

He could handle that, and work with that. It wasn’t like—

Cyril made a quiet noise.

“I’ve never…”

A blast of cold shot through Mikael’s veins, more sobering than any tonic he’d ever taken. He stared at her. “You’ve never what , Cyril?”

She chewed her lip for a moment that stretched on forever.

“I, uh…I’ve never been with anyone…ever.”

“Fucking hells.” Mikael sat back and shook his head in disbelief. Every bit of want and aching need took off running from his body. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Cyril grimaced as she pushed herself up. He couldn’t look at her long enough to figure out if that was misplaced shame in her eyes or not. “But I still want —”

“No. Absolutely not.” Mikael grabbed the hand she skimmed right up his thigh and set it aside. “Not like this. I’m not taking that from you when you couldn’t even walk back here on your own.”

He shouldn’t have been taking a single fucking thing from her, period.

But he was an idiot, through and through, letting his gods damned cock and a day of drinking dictate his decisions.

“But it was fine before? Before you knew…?” The quiet hurt in Cyril’s voice compelled Mikael to finally look her in the eyes.

They were tear-lined and round, and he…

He’d fucked up in such an unfathomable way.

“Am I just not good enough now? I’m not experienced enough and now you…you don't want me anymore?”

“Cyril, that is not— ”Mikael swore and pinched his brow.

With all that lockmead still coursing through her system, rational thoughts were bound to be her enemy.

His too, truthfully.

He turned to Cyril and took both her hands in his, holding them tight even when she tried to pull back.

“When we were just a couple of drunks making equally questionable decisions celebrating the solstice? I could live with feeling shitty about that tomorrow. But your virginity ? That tips the scales way too fucking far out of balance.”

Cyril said nothing.

She just kept looking at him with those big, heartbroken eyes.

“And this isn’t a good enough or experienced enough thing, okay?” Mikael added.

Gods, if only she knew what the prospect of her sharing that sort of vulnerability did to him. That was the sort of thing most men with a heartbeat could only ever fantasize about.

“I like the way you look at me now, Cyril, and I don’t want regret to ever be a part of that. This is entirely about my conscience and treating you with some respect.”

Not to mention the slight, healthy fear he had of the fucking terrifying men she casually referred to as her uncles.

Again, silence.

Cyril shook her head as she slid off the bed and staggered down to the footboard. She leaned against the wooden post, quietly sighing and cursing as she struggled to pull off her boots. They ended up tossed in opposite directions, one soaring right past Mikael as he stood.

“Not going to say anything?” he asked.

The caustic glare she cut him spoke volumes to her thoughts.

“Fuck off and leave me alone,” Cyril mumbled, pushing off of the bedframe, but Mikael hooked her around the waist and pulled her back against him.

“Cyril,” he said quietly, “I’d be happy to be your first, okay? Just not like this. Maybe get to know me a little and then decide if that’s something you actually want to give me.”

Now wasn’t the time to delve into why he held such a firm stance on the matter. Another day, maybe, if she deigned to speak to him again, but not now.

“I said, fuck off and leave me alone.” Her voice wavered, and she pushed away from him.

Mikael didn’t bother to stop her.

She stalked over to her wardrobes and started rifling through cabinets and drawers, and he decided it was time to leave.

“Oh, before I forget…”

Hand on the door, he turned back just in time to glimpse Cyril’s bare back as her bodice sank around her hips. She tossed the laces he just had his fingers tangled in onto the floor.

What a sight to be walking away from.

“Someone will come around with food and tonics in the morning. Try to survive on your own until then.”

Cyril didn’t say a damn thing or even bother to look back at him. She just raised her hand and flipped him off.

Mikael left her room with a smile on his face and an ache he was going to settle for sating on his own.