63. Chapter 63

Chapter 63

N othing but screaming filled Cyril’s ears.

Her own screaming.

A terrifying, familiar slickness coated her skin, and she…

Her chest heaved of its own frantic volition. Bursts of pain tore up through her side with each sawed breath her lungs fought to draw of damp, decay-laced air. The sickly metallic tang of blood coated Cyril’s mouth as she struggled to get herself upright, the cold and gritty ground biting into her palms and knees.

Not plush carpet runners.

Not smooth, polished moonstone.

Despite her frantic blinking, the abyssal black filling her vision refused to clear.

No hearth crackled gently across the room.

No dull murmur of life in the hall.

No wind rattling the window panes.

Thick, heavy silence filled the air around her.

Cyril’s heart raced, goosebumps rippling up her flesh, and every instinct in her body told her to run , to move , to go .

But she struggled to get up.

She could barely will her leg to bear the full breadth of her weight, the muscle locked and searing, the bone aching and—

“It wakes.”

Every bit of air knocked from Cyril’s lungs with a sob, and she fucking ran .

Nausea-inducing agony be damned. She had to move. She had to get somewhere, anywhere but here .

Cyril clasped a hand over her traitorous mouth, trying to smother the cries that the rattling, otherworldly voice pulled from her. It echoed and rumbled from every fucking direction. No matter how hard she ran, no matter how far she ran.

In the unyielding pitch black, her collision with a stone wall was jarring.

Smooth and cold, the impact rattled her bones, and she staggered away.

“Cyril!”

No.

No.

No .

Cyril had to go . She had to keep running.

But she fucked up.

She let herself think, let herself hesitate , and the pain caught up.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she splayed a hand against the wall, steadying herself to limp away from the thundering footfalls closing in behind her.

She couldn’t move fast enough.

“Cyril!”

Cyril’s knee buckled and slammed into the cold, cragged floor. A hoarse sob left her. Nothing but the frantic rushing of blood filled her ears as she fought against the arm that wrapped around her midsection and hauled her back. She clawed and twisted, but it was pointless. She had nothing left in her.

“Give her to me.” A female voice, soft, lilting, just like—

“ Nononono —Don’t, please . Please don’t hurt me,” Cyril choked out, but a bolt of ice shot through every nerve ending in her body.

Cyril stilled as tension slipped from her muscles.

A dull whine filled her ears, and she struggled to process the light that flooded her vision.

The gleaming moonstone floors she was heaped upon.

The hands, clasped at her temples and—

“You’re alright,” a familiar, masculine voice rumbled at her back. It was a tone so close to what a scattered part of her being was frantic to hear.

The hands on her temples eased her face up, and up, and up until her gaze snagged on the wide, silvery-blue eyes staring down at her. Blue eyes, and fair skin, and red hair, and—

“Sweetheart, you’re safe,” Runa said, her brows drawn together. She cupped Cyril’s cheeks before she settled her hands back in her own lap. “No one is going to hurt you here.”

Here . The palace. Not…

Cyril’s breath came in ragged bursts. She had no control over the startled half-sob that clawed its way out of her when the arm holding her loosened. Her gaze dropped past the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to her chest, to the bronzed and bleeding skin of the muscular forearm holding her upright.

“I…” She sucked in a shuddering burst of air as a shiver set into her body.

“Lars has you,” Runa said softly.

Cyril knew that, but she couldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t stop the burning that pricked at the corners of her eyes moments before tears flooded her vision.

“I’m sorry, I…”

Cyril hurt him, but she just couldn’t get it out. Not as a sob rattled out of her and she clamped her hand over her mouth.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Lars sounded so calm, so nonchalant , but Cyril was already too far gone.

She couldn’t get a handle on the tears and sobs that rolled out of her. She tried to tell herself, repeatedly, that she was safe , but every fiber of her fucking being was on edge—ready for danger, ready to run . The heavy footfalls echoing down the hall did nothing to help that.

Cyril tensed, her muscles barking in protest as her legs slipped on the tile floor and she pushed back against Lars. Away from the noise, away from the danger , away from—

“It’s just Dion.” Lars’ voice was as quiet as she’d ever heard it.

Dion .

She hadn’t known a single word could conflict her so thoroughly, and seeing him only served to heightened the dread and relief that swirled through her in tandem.

She blinked through her watery vision to where Runa had gone to meet him, halfway down the fucking hall. Cyril didn’t know how she made it so far from her room, not with the pulsing ache in her leg that got worse with every passing second.

“What happened?” she heard Dion say, exasperated and breathless.

Had he run here?

Runa spoke too softly for Cyril to make out much more than night terror and feverish as they cleared the rest of the distance down the hall.

Dion’s eyes were wary as he said, “Where is—”

“Do not finish that,” Runa bit out. “ You are her family, and I cannot even fathom the list of things you have to make amends for. Start by taking care of her for once.”

If Cyril hadn’t felt like shit before, she certainly did after that.

Even with their relationship left in shreds, she still was a burden.

A thread of her being revolted at the thought of why their relationship was in shreds, of why she hadn’t seen him in weeks. But all reason unraveled when he sank to his knees at her side.

Rare softness hung in Dion’s eyes, his entire face uneasy, as he said, “What do you need, Cyr? Do you want me to…?”

Even with Dion’s hesitancy, Cyril nodded desperately. She was afraid of what sort of broken noise might come out of her if she tried to speak.

Lars and Dion had some sort of unspoken exchange before the king loosened his hold on Cyril to let her uncle get his arms around her.

Dion pulled her to his chest, the soul-soothing smell of his cologne wrapping around her too. A sob slipped out of her, followed by another, and another, until her shoulders shook and she crumpled against him. Her emotions were fucking fried.

“Oh, kiddo ,” he said with a sort of gentleness she hadn’t heard in years—a sort of gentleness that only made her cry harder—as he ran his hand over the back of her head, over the hacked-off strands of hair. “I’ve got you, okay? Let’s get you back in bed and comfortable.”

Dion didn’t wait for her to make a fumbled attempt at speaking before he eased her up onto her feet—a monumental task given how her muscles protested at the movement and how pain shot bone deep in her leg. She couldn’t even graze her toes on the ground without a whimper cutting through the sniffles her sobs had settled into.

“I can’t…” she admitted, even as she tried once more to settle a fraction of her weight on her left leg. Not a fucking chance.

“That’s alright.”

Dion was already shifting, guiding her arms up around his neck before his own settled behind her back and knees and lifted her. Cyril nestled her head against his chest, and Dion carried her back to her room without another word.

Even as he set her down in bed, brought her water, and made sure she was thoroughly tucked in, the silence persisted.

He didn’t question what happened.

He didn’t scold her for reckless endangerment.

He didn’t have a snide comment about her decisions or interests.

For the first time in Cyril’s entire life, Dion Rhodea kept his opinions to himself.

It was a blessing that sleep took her before she could dwell on that too much.