Page 11 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

The watch is more a piece of pretty but understated jewelry than an actual useful device.

And my father hasn’t dared to blink at the princess-inappropriate statement ring even once.

Because it was a gift from my beloved brother.

Not only does it swamp the ring finger of my right hand, but it’s heavy enough that it initially hurt to wear it for long periods of time.

I slip the ring on my finger, unexpectedly feeling just a little more grounded with its weight dragging my hand down. I’m obviously still overly sensitized due to the proximity of the intersection point —

The list of names I wrote last night is gone.

I open the drawer, spotting my capped pen, the pot of rose-gold ink, and the stack of cream linen paper. The invitations for the charity event that I wrote out are set where I left them. But no list.

The names I scrawled … the names I thought I scrawled across the paper under the influence of unfettered grief and the unrelenting press of the intersection point are gone.

Have I … did I only imagine writing it?

A shudder of emotion runs through me — not grief, but fear. Fear that I was so far gone last night that I imagined the universe shifting through me, speaking through me.

Through me from pen to paper, channeling six names.

My brother. Five potential chosen mates.

I carefully shut the desk drawer. I straighten out the chair, then step steadily away toward the door and out into the hall. I don’t falter. I don’t press my shaking hand to my mouth. Because my only other choice is another complete meltdown. And I’m done with that.

I have to be done with that. I don’t have any other choice.

The idea that I’ve allowed myself to become so lost scares the shit out of me. So when I turn away from what might have been a guilt-infused, essence-overwhelmed hallucination — picking up my pace because I’m almost late for lunch — I do it with utter resolve.

I’ve never shirked my duty.

I’ve never been asked for as much as is now being demanded from me, but I’ve never faltered before.

I may stumble — I have no doubt I’ll stumble plenty — but I won’t falter. Not again.

I’m steps away from the smaller dining room off the north terrace that my father prefers for lunch when my phone vibrates in my hand.

Sunlight is streaming through gold-framed window arches, dappling the thick carpet that runs down the center of the corridor.

Unlike the oldest areas of the castle, the newer sections aren’t just long runs of ancient stone corridors dotted with small, mostly windowless rooms.

I glance at the screen, hoping to see a text message revealing that the certain-to-be uncomfortable meal has been delayed or even outright cancelled.

I find something even better.

A text from Rian.

Apparently, he’s noticed that I programmed my number into his phone before I left his rooms. He really should have the phone’s security measures engaged.

And … it’s not just a simple text message.

His adorably simple Hi is paired with an utterly delectable picture of him — bare chested with his hand shoved into the front of his unbuttoned jeans as he stares intensely straight at the camera, straight at me.

The essence of his beast rings his eyes in a slightly brighter green.

His hair is still damp from a shower. I can see the edge of the still-open window of the loft and a hint of the mountain vista over his shoulder.

My knees go weak. Weak enough that I have to press one hand to the wall, papered in velvet brocade, to steady myself as desire literally floods my entire system. My heart rate jackknifes, then all but thrums in my chest. I actually dampen my panties .

Another text message follows the picture.

Four new, fucking gorgeous, multimillion-euro horses in my ring. But I can’t stop thinking about your tight cunt wrapped around my cock, Highness.

The mere memory of you wrecks me.

I don’t know how to answer. Not with words carefully composed and typed into a tiny window.

Not with my limbs quivering with renewed desire.

Not without taking the time necessary to analyze, dissect, what I’m feeling.

Then the extra time it will take to figure out how the fuck I’m going to keep, keep and protect, what has so quickly grown between Rian and me.

So instead, I slip into the next empty room — the silver-service storage area for the north terrace dining room — not caring that doing so will make me late. I lock the door, though the serving staff is likely done in here for the next hour.

Then I break a fundamental rule.

Not quite knowing who I am anymore — the changes, choices, disintegration, and growth is all coming too quickly for me to navigate with any sort of rationality — I strip off the stupid sweater set, mussing my hair and not caring.

I tug down one of the cups of my practically virginal off-white lace bra, exposing my tight nipple and knowing that my otherwise boring cream skin is offset by the dark tip. Then I bite the pearl necklace between my teeth, and I take a fucking selfie looking directly at the camera lens of my phone.

My purple-hued eyes are fucking glowing. Again.

And I look … real.

Shockingly real. Not the painted, perfected facade of the princess. I look playful and … dangerous. It’s the eyes, of co urse. Not that I can wield the power that underlies the dark deeds those glowing orbs promise.

I look … fuckable.

I don’t let myself analyze the selfie any further than that. Or question the impulse to take it.

I send the photo back to Rian.

If he truly wants to be a millionaire at age eighteen, I’ve just handed him a winning ticket.

I wrestle my bra back into place. I’m reaching for the sweater set when he texts back.

Fuck.

The memory of him shouting that as I’d licked his warm, hard length last night shudders through my mind. But in an actual attempt to not be too late for lunch, I get dressed instead of answering, smoothing my hair and stepping over to unlock the door.

My screen flashes again.

I just fucking came.

Everywhere.

Just by fucking looking at you.

Tonight?

I swallow hard. I really, really try to not think about him jerking off to my photo. I’m unsuccessful. Rian is far too easily present in my mind’s eye to be denied.

My hand shakes as I type back.

Yes. Please.

Come to me. Leave the necklace.

You’ll be wearing my fucking pearls.

I laugh quietly, but utterly giddy. No one talks to me like that. No one has ever really … wanted me. Rian Callaghan might actually melt my mind.

I can somehow figure out how to do my duty and still have that. Still have Rian. Right? Even if just for these few moments. I can have him, hold him, taste him, right ?

No one would blame me or question me for wanting him, keeping him. Just as Anne didn’t question me when she collected me from the stables.

I save Rian’s photo in a triple-password-protected directory on my phone, then delete the text thread.

But not before I text back.

Promise?

And he replies,

Anytime. Anywhere. With you.

It’s possible that I might actually be high — on lust?

Or am I … lovesick? — as I walk into lunch with my father and Anne.

There’s a small buffet of sandwiches and three kinds of soup on the sideboard, arrayed on and within various perfectly buffed silver dishes replete with essence-cast warming and cooling spells.

A breathtaking view of sun-kissed, snow-shrouded mountains stretches beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the terrace.

Unfortunately, the small dark-wood dining table isn’t currently set on the terrace. And ‘small’ is a relative term when applied to anything in a castle that’s been in our family for centuries. Though it’s only set for three, the table easily sits twelve.

I keep my sunglasses on, moving to sit facing the windows to justify doing so.

At the head of the table, my father frowns.

Rather deeply for this subtle a slight. Anne gestures for me to sit next to her — where my place setting actually is.

And though this places her between me and my father at the head of the table, I understand that it’s not a protective gesture as she all but snatches my sunglasses off my face and my phone from my hands as I sit down.

Bedecked in their black-and-white daytime uniforms, two of the serving staff enter the dining room from a small staging area that connects to the kitchens below.

They fill our crystal water glasses, quietly murmuring the menu in our ears as they do so.

As if we aren’t perfectly capable of serving ourselves.

We sit in continued silence as the under-butler, who still insists on wearing gloves even at lunch, subtly directs a blond server in their early twenties to accept my purloined items from Anne.

I don’t recognize the server, who also takes Anne’s request for a roasted-chicken-and-red-pepper sandwich, along with the leek-and-potato soup.

Both of the staff members are nulls, without overtly obvious magic. But it’s the hint of tattoos peeking out from the blond server’s sleeves and their simple gold ear cuffs that make me irrationally jealous of them. An odd reaction. For multiple reasons.

Tattoos and extra ear piercings weren’t even a conversation I could hope to start with my father when I was younger, and then … then I just stopped wanting such things …

When did I stop wanting such things?

Wanting to express myself as an individual?

Before I lost Armin. Years before.

The server places my phone and sunglasses on a secondary side table, next to an ostentatious fresh bouquet of completely out-of-season yellow roses.

Conveniently for me, that table is right next to the door.

So despite my not recognizing them, the server appears well aware of the nuances of our family dynamics, including the propensity for at least one of us to abandon every meal early on.