69. Chapter 69

Chapter 69

D espite everything, Cyril couldn’t sleep. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising, given the contrasting magnitudes of what took place the evening before, but her mind raced and she just couldn’t settle. Part of her felt more sated than she ever had in her life, with Mikael’s slumbering body and proclamations of love wrapped around her.

But there was unease she grappled with too.

Guilt and grief, maybe, for all that happened. For all that wouldn’t have happened if someone listened, or acted sooner, or did anything other than sit around and mind the peace.

Her chest was aching again, and distance from Mikael had nothing to do with it this time.

It was only a matter of time before all her tossing and turning woke him, so Cyril extracted herself carefully from the prince’s arms and his bed. He shifted around and grumbled something entirely incoherent, and then he was gone again.

Cyril wrapped herself in a throw and crossed the room with the quietest, half-limped steps she could manage.

On the other side of the double glass doors, whispered remnants of sunrise left the balcony awash in a soft, golden light that beckoned Cyril out to it.

A breath of fresh air seemed like her best option, truthfully. She was desperate enough for sleep that the thought of a few minutes of shuteye out on a patio chair seemed thrilling. She’d slept in far worse places.

The early autumn air was cool and damp, carried on the faintest breeze, and pricked at her bare legs as she settled into a chaise. Cyril let her eyes slip shut as she rubbed at an ache in her neck, the subdued, early morning chatter of birds filling her ears.

As soon as darkness filled her vision though, her mind betrayed her entirely.

Reminders of death and blood and gurgling last breaths slammed into. Like her mind just couldn’t fight to keep those horrific images at bay anymore. The smell of decay filled her nose, the acrid copper tang of blood coating her mouth, and nausea clawed at her quickly.

But Cyril gripped the cool, metal arms of the chaise, tethering herself as her breath came in shaky bursts. She sank back against the chair, pressing so hard that the cushion lost its comfort, and metal rungs dug into her back.

She just had to breathe .

Slowly, those sickening images dissipated.

But the aching pressure in her chest felt infinitely worse.

It was so easy to write off the discomfort when Mikael was away. After she’d pieced together Runa’s startling commentary, she blamed every bit of her pain on that fresh, angry bond stretched so thin between them. It settled entirely after he returned too.

Now she knew just how different this was.

Rooted somewhere deep in the very core of her being, this aching pressure was nothing like the tug of that bond. And Cyril was tired of ignoring it, of shoving it away because she was afraid .

So she reached for it.

Gripped and pulled and invited in whatever the hells her body had so insistently tried to get her to acknowledge, if only so it might finally let her get some fucking rest. She prepared for the worst. For the inevitability of terror and guilt of what happened to tear through her thoroughly, as it felt like it had nearly done so many times already. At least now Mikael was close enough to hear her if she needed him.

Cyril was not prepared for warmth.

She was not prepared for that pull in her chest to surge through her limbs as soon as she acknowledged it, leaving a blissful sort of heat in its wake. The chill of the early morning air simply vanished, and her hands buzzed in a way she’d never felt before.

When she opened her eyes, a ragged breath left her lungs.

Mikael wasn’t sure what in the hells woke him up, but he wasn’t happy about it.

His soul was tired, his bones ached, and there was no fucking way he should be conscious. Not when he was finally back in his bed, sleeping beside his bonded, his everything . Cyril was…

Not in bed anymore.

He rolled over, sweeping his arm over the spot he was sure she had just occupied.

Lukewarm.

There was no way she should be awake either, but the trail of morning light from the half-open patio door said otherwise. Against the nagging undertow of exhaustion, Mikael pulled himself out of bed. He found his pants on the floor and called that good enough before he ambled over to the door.

His mother warned him about the brutal nightmares Cyril had and the ones she would likely keep having. She must have had one, he figured, as he pulled the door open wider.

Cyril was just sitting on a chaise, knees drawn to her chest and her back to the door. He opened his mouth, ready to lure her back to bed, but his eyes adjusted to the morning light and Mikael went still.

On Cyril’s outstretched hands, pale yellow flames flickered and danced across the surface of her palms, winking out just moments later. She closed her fist, and a shuddering precursor to a sob left her.

Mikael could only grin as he leaned against the doorframe, pride swelling in his chest.

Cyril Rhodea had her fire.