64. Chapter 64

Chapter 64

C yril was a child the last time she woke to Dion sitting at her bedside, and it made her heart hurt in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. Not with how much the rest of her body still ached, at least. Even the weighty press of her duvet edged on being uncomfortable.

Dion looked so peaceful, slouched back in the plush armchair with his ankle crossed over his knee, flipping through a stack of parchment. The dark shadows clinging around his eyes, though, spoke volumes to just how little peace he’d had in the weeks since she last saw him.

He deserved it, she supposed, for the decision he made.

But it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

Cyril eased onto her side, drawing her knees up as close to her chest as they would go. Her healing body did not like that, but she didn't care.

“Morning,” she mumbled.

Dion’s eyes slid over to her. He lowered whatever he was reading.

The smile he gave her was cautious, maybe a little sad even.

“ Afternoon ,” he said, and that certainly explained why the sunlight pouring in through her bedroom windows hurt her eyes so fucking badly. Well, that and the head injury too. “How are you feeling?”

She sighed through her nose. “I don’t know.”

“Better than yesterday?”

Well, her throat didn’t feel like it had as much glass in it. The pounding in her head had settled into something a shade or two away from bearable too. The tight, pulling ache low in her chest was new though, and not something she was impressed to wake up to.

“A bit, I guess. It’s—”

Her attention snagged on the papers that Dion absentmindedly straightened out and tossed on the end of her bed.

“What’s that?” she asked, as if he might deign to tell her something for once in her life. Dion eyed her and then the papers with unease for long enough that Cyril pressed half of her face into the plush end of her duvet and sighed, “Never mind.”

“It’s Wren’s report on your injuries, Cyr.”

Cyril blinked down at him. Dion already had the papers back in his hands.

“And what does it say?”

“...You really want to know?”

“I’d like to know why I feel like such shit—” Cyril couldn’t hold back her ragged cough. The shards of glass were back. “Aside from the broken leg business.”

To that, at least, Dion huffed a laugh and shook his head.

“Let’s see.” He sat back in his chair, shuffling through the papers until he found one to pull to the top of the pile. “You had…a fractured pelvis and shattered femur, a complete abdominal tear, a collapsed lung, multiple damaged organs, a severe concussion…”

The unimpressed, sidelong glance Dion cast at Cyril drew a quiet “Oh” from her.

“ Oh , indeed. And where was…” He flipped through the pages again. “Ah, here. ‘ Upon my arrival, the patient—Cyril Rhodea, age twenty-one—presented with near critical exsanguination as a result of her grievous abdominal injuries’...”

“ Exsan —” Cyril’s eyes narrowed. Maybe the concussion was to blame but… “What does that mean?”

“You nearly bled to death.”

The hint of bitter amusement vacated Dion’s voice, leaving tension in the air that Cyril wanted nothing to do with.

And it wasn’t easy to shove aside the part of her that wanted to go toe to toe with him on instinct. The part of her that wanted to joke about how fitting it would have been if she went out like her mother did. But she was exhausted.

She didn’t have it in her to fight with him, though.

Instead, she pushed herself upright in a slow and painful motion, and said, “I’m sorry about last night.”

That, at least, was the truth.

The finer details of what drove her screaming out into the hall hadn’t stuck around, and for that she was grateful, but the aftermath was clear. She owed Lars and Runa an apology too, for having a fucking meltdown in the hallway and ruining their evening.

“Cyr, you do not have to apologize for that.” Dion’s eyes softened. He sighed, tossing the medical report back onto the foot of her bed. “You shouldn’t have been alone, not so soon. I…I hadn’t known he —”

“Mikael had to go, he didn’t have a choice.”

That was what she kept telling herself, at least, that he had duties and obligations that had to come before all else. But just saying his name hurt a part of her deep down inside. A single day, and she was pining after him like a lost puppy.

She’d blame that on the head injury, too, or maybe the blood loss.

“I realize that now, and I don’t envy what he has to do.”

As Dion leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, Cyril wondered just how many times he delivered news like that, to the families of men who died far too soon, all in the name of their work .

If his absent stare across the room was any indicator…too many times.

“And truthfully, Cyr,” he continued, pulling his eyes back to her, “even if I had known last night… Well, I don’t think I’m high on the list of people you’d want to keep you company.”

Cyril nodded, her lips drawn in a tight line.

They both knew he was right.

Even him being there now felt so many shades of fucked up.

Some deep-rooted part of her felt sated and safe to be around him. The child within her, maybe, that thought her uncle was an infallible, trustworthy man. But there was a larger part of her now that feared her own flesh and blood, the monster that he had become.

“I’m still sorry you had to deal with it, with me ,” she said, wincing as she rubbed at the aching muscle beneath the scarred skin on her thigh. “I feel like that’s not very high on the list of things you want to be burdened with.”

Cyril raised her brow, hoping to the gods it would break some of the simmering tension in the room.

It did not.

“Taking care of you is something I will never be mad about having to do, kiddo, so please don’t apologize. You aren’t a burden, and you never have been. I—” Dion sighed, shaking his head. “I fear I owe you a great number of apologies and explanations, and I’m not sure where to start.”

That knocked the air from Cyril’s lungs.

Dion was not the sort of man to admit fault for anything, but apologies were something she was not ready to field from him. That would involve putting what he did to her—what he’s done to her—to words, giving it merit and credence and reality .

No part of her was steady enough to cross that bridge.

Not now, and maybe never.

So she took a slow breath, trying to ignore that pulling ache stirring up in her chest again, and looked Dion right in the eyes as she said, “I want explanations.”

Dion blinked at her, a current of surprise flickering in his features. Maybe relief, even. Whatever he expected from her, it wasn’t that. But Cyril wasn’t about to squander the opportunity.

“Anything,” he breathed.

“Your scar. How did you get it?”

A pained, dry laugh left Dion as he turned his eyes up at the ceiling. “Right to it then.”

“It was during your ascension, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.” His gaze slid over to her, uncomfortable as all fucking hells. “I suppose you’d like to know the details of that as well?”

Cyril nodded, and Dion took a slow breath.

“I was twenty-nine when it happened—” A far cry from the it was a long time ago and I don’t remember the specifics spiel he gave her the last time she broached this subject. “—and I had just fulfilled a fairly, well… political contract for the guild that resulted in some…retribution.”

Confidence was not something Dion usually spoke without, but there was not a measure of it to be found in his words now, the slow and cautious things they were.

“The home I lived at in the city was ransacked while my…partner and I were out having an evening to ourselves, and they waited for us. My senses were…dulled, and they took us by surprise. I woke up in a barn somewhere remote, and they killed her in front of me.”

Cyril stilled.

The embroidered edge of the duvet she’d been toying with slipped through her fingers.

“Your partner ?”

Rogues didn’t have dedicated partners. If a contract was deemed risky or high-profile enough, they may be assigned someone to work in tandem with, but—

“My wife,” Dion said, with the sort of defeat she was certain she never heard him speak with. Like that singular word caused him agony.

Cyril’s lips parted, but she couldn’t muster up even a noise. Every ache and pain vacated her body as that singular word settled in.

Wife .

Dion had a wife .

How many times had she teased him about not settling down?

How often did the residents of the estate give him a hard time about his proclivities ?

“I made two very distinct mistakes in my early days as a rogue,” Dion continued, and Cyril had no idea how. A hundred years of shoving it down, she supposed, but that pain…

“The first was allowing myself to care for someone like that, despite the dangers of my work. The other was not knowing when to keep my fucking mouth shut.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But that was when my ascension happened. They forced me to watch as they…slaughtered her, and I exploded . My fire leveled the building and took most of them with it too, but I didn’t stand a chance against the few who made it. They beat me within an inch of my life, carved this”—he gestured to his scar—“into me, and left me for dead in the mountains.”

Cyril just stared at Dion, at the discomfort in his eyes as he held her gaze, at the tension wrought through every bit of him.

She had no words.

It was always easy to assume no short few terrible things had happened to Dion in his life, with his temperament the way it was. But this was something she’d never considered…

“And to answer what I’m sure your next questions will be…”

Ah, there it was.

Dion’s voice had taken on a honed edge she knew well.

This conversation was over.

“Reykr royal patrols found me by some grace of the gods and brought me here to recover, which was how I met Lars and Runa. And no, I will not speak about her , ever. So please don’t go down that road.”

And that was that.

Her life’s curiosity sated, and no bit of it felt good to know.

Not an ounce of satisfaction in knowing Dion’s deepest, darkest secret.

All it left her feeling was flush and a bit nauseous, which was maybe just the doing of her healing body, but none of what he told her made her feel like she once dreamed it would.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Dion gave her a nonchalant shrug, like he hadn't just mentioned he had a wife that had been brutally murdered. Like he hadn’t just solidified that she knew even less about the man who raised her than she thought.

“It’s ancient history now. But—” His angular eyebrows drew together, and he tipped his head. “You are not doing well, are you?”

Cyril’s responding smile was weak, and she shook her head.

“I’ve felt better,” she said as she pushed back the covers and willed her legs over the edge of the mattress. Dion stood in a hurry. “I just need to get up for a bit and…”

She was immensely thankful for Dion’s physical presence as she pushed herself up onto legs that wanted very little to do with load-bearing. Her knees buckled, and she gripped at Dion’s arm for dear life as pain shot up through her thigh.

“I think up is the last direction you should be going right now, Cyr—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” She sucked a sharp breath in through her teeth and pressed her forehead to Dion’s shoulder. The wave of discomfort started to ebb. “What time is it?”

Dion shifted twice. Once to look at the clock, she was sure, and the second to give her what must have been an incredulous look.

“Just after one. Why?”

“Do you think we missed lunch?”

“...You’re hungry?”

“Yeah.”

She really wasn't at all.

But movement seemed like it might be the answer to her woes. Maybe her leg would hurt enough that it would distract her from the pain in her head and her chest that just wouldn’t fucking quit.

“I’ll go down and get something for you, just sit—”

Dion sighed as Cyril pushed away from him and took her first few hobbled steps down the side of the bed. Better already than the steps Runa had to guide her through to the bathroom the day before. She skimmed her fingers along the mattress and footboard as she worked a slow path toward her closets.

The queen’s borrowed loungewear was something Cyril would never complain about wearing—hells, she hoped Runa might tell her where she got them from—but the prospect of getting into her own clothing was more exciting than it should have been.

“Just give me a minute to get dressed and we can go down.” Cyril steadied herself on the closet half-door she pulled open—slim pickings with most of her things in Mika’s room now. “Apparently, Wren said I should be up and moving, anyway.”

Dion grumbled something that sounded awfully like a protest, but he sank back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

“Yell if you need something,” was the last thing she heard him say before she limped into the bathroom with an armful of clothing.

Outside of her room, the palace brimmed with life.

Not in a good way, either.

It was bright, far too fucking bright, and busy—loud, really.

Cyril should have stayed in bed.

Her leg was in no way ready for that amount of walking either, but like hells she would ever admit defeat to Dion. Even if he watched her with wary eyes the entire time. She just clenched her jaw through the pain and the headache, and the nausea that simmered.

She was just overwhelmed from being cooped up, and it would pass. At least, that's what she told herself.

Lars and Runa looked stunned when she hobbled through the dining room doors with Dion’s help.

“I know, I know.” Her uncle held a hand up in defense when Runa’s surprise morphed into disapproval. “She wanted to come down.”

“I need to sit,” Cyril said quietly, and Dion gave her an unmistakably annoyed look. He shuffled her right into a chair that Lars rushed to pull out from the table.

Nothing improved once she sat.

The ringing that built in her ears neared deafening. She felt like she might vomit at any moment. And her chest? Fuck . Something tethered itself to the middle of her ribs and pulled with all its might on every breath she took. An inexplicable sort of pressure took its place on every exhale, and Cyril was closing in on asking to visit Wren.

Worse didn’t seem like the right direction for things to be going in.

Something had to not be healing right, for her senses to be this out of fucking whack and for—

“Cyr, you need to eat something…”

Dion’s voice cut through the static filling her head, full of concern and so. Fucking. Loud .

She nodded and rubbed at her sternum, hoping it would ease some of the discomfort.

It didn’t.

So, instead of the chicken she was sure would turn her stomach inside out, Cyril reached for the teacup Dion filled for her and brought the sloshing liquid to her lips. The aroma of the tea she’d grown to love was nothing short of putrid, but three sets of eyes watched her expectantly.

So she drank.

It was bitter, but she focused on the warmth of it, fighting that heave that tried to crawl its way up her throat.

Everything went downhill from there.

With the sparse threads of her attention pulled every which damn way, Cyril missed the table in its entirety as she set her cup down. The porcelain shattered as soon as it hit the floor.

Chairs scraped, dishes clattered, and searing pain tore through Cyril’s ears. She clutched at her head as it pounded and that screeching ringing became unbearable.

It didn’t stop.

“ Cyril, you need to —”

That agonizing sound was going to tear her fucking head apart…

And she…

“…Please, Cyr, just…”

She couldn’t fucking breathe .

The pressure in her chest wouldn’t go down, and the pull was just fucking merciless, holding her ribs in a vise. Her vision swam, gray and hazy, and something firm grazed her back.

Like stone.

A damp and metallic smell hit her then, like blood and death and rot and—

Nononononono.

Darkness slammed into her like a wall, and a painful rush of air filled her lungs. Hands gripped her face, fingers skimming her temples, and pulled her attention up—silver eyes, red hair.

Runa.

A wave of calmness forced itself through every fiber of Cyril’s body, loosening every damn muscle in her, until she felt like putty in the queen’s hands. Thick and tangible shadows swirled all around them, dampening every light and sound until the alarmed voices she could hear faded to broken whispers.

“…happened, D…like it or not…”

She took a few ragged breaths, and the furious beating of her heart eased.

“…no…she’s not re…”

Runa swiped her thumbs over her cheeks, pulling dampness with them.

Had she been crying? Her eyes burned like she had.

Cyril wanted to ask what in any of the fucking hells just happened, but all she rasped out was, “What…?”

“I think you panicked.” The queen’s smile was soft and empathetic. “You may have been too ambitious with your first excursion. That poor body of yours has been under so much stress, and still is, trying to heal.”

The lump in Cyril’s throat was painful to swallow down.

“I’m going to settle your mind a bit, alright?” Runa said, carding her fingers through Cyril’s hair. “And then Dion is going to bring you upstairs and put you to bed.”

Cyril nodded, and darkness consumed her.