Page 17 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

Raoul shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, as if he isn’t now all but holding me up with fingers digging into my too-boney shoulder. “She should have someone she loves there, shouldn’t she? To protect her.”

Because her protector is dead.

Armin is dead, and he’s left her to her father’s dubious care, her father’s machinations. And the most powerful wolf in the United European Nation, one of the chancellor’s fucking chosen, is recruiting me to step in, to help her. Mirth.

Except I’m not capable of that.

I’m one of the biggest rock stars of the decade.

It’s possible I’m a millionaire a few times over. I could check that if I ever took the time to make sure I’m not being swindled from every direction.

But I have no titles, no lands.

My eyes aren’t fucking purple.

Somehow, though, I don’t look away from Raoul. I don’t drop his painfully dominant gaze, not even when he grins, clasps my shoulder again, then releases it so quickly that I stumble.

“There’s a list of requirements, including a physical to pass.”

Medical tests? Fuck me. This is insanely serious. The bastard chancellor is looking to breed his only daughter.

No, not only. I haven’t seen either of them since they were still in diapers, but one of Mirth’s younger siblings is female as well. But the twins weren’t deliberately bred for power, then raised to wield it as Armin and Mirth were. And Tinsel doesn’t have the purple eyes. Not currently, at least.

Raoul continues as if I’m not just standing there mute and mindless. “Contact Anne if you need help meeting the requirements. I’ll make a reservation for you at the rehab place.”

“No,” I say, finally finding my words. “I’ll go home. ”

“Even better. Give Adeline a kiss for me.”

“Keep your fucking lips to yourself, old man,” I say, grinning. Grinning because now I understand his earlier ‘you have his daughter to thank for this honor’ comment.

Mirth has invited me to … court her? Or at least to shelter her, as much as I can, from the formalities of an antiquated courting process. A process that I have no doubt her father is forcing upon her.

“No promises, cub,” Raoul says, like a total ass. “I have four more personal deliveries to make. I’ll see you at Lake Thun in twenty-seven days.” He casually tosses out the location like it’s a summer cottage, not an ancient fucking castle.

He looks at me pointedly, not even a trace of friendliness on his face now. He waits until I nod.

That tidbit of extra info, seemingly casually tossed out, is already clicking around in my mind. Four more personal deliveries. Four more at Mirth’s request? I can only think of one other person she’d want at her side. Maybe even needs at her side because she doesn’t have Armin.

Maybe he’s been at her side this entire time.

And he isn’t my biggest fan. By a long shot.

Raoul, flanked by the two other perpetually mute dark-suited royal guards, has crossed out of the apartment before I remember that he was the one who came to the door to deliver the news of my father’s death.

That he held my mom for hours afterward.

That he was wounded in the kidnapping attempt of Armin and his birth mother.

I’m pretty sure that was before he stepped up to be one of the chancellor’s chosen.

The second mage quietly shuts the door behind them.

I slump to the floor right where I’m standing. My legs just give out. Surrounded by the garbage of my life, holding onto a gilded invitation … two gilded invitations …

Invitations to what? To start living again? To set aside all the suffocating regret? To make different choices? To be honest and true?

Because even though she’ll finally be the one to reject me — as she should — it will be done. Done.

And the bond … the soul-deep bond that I’ve actively refused to acknowledge — not even when I can get off only by watching a fucking vid of her or by screwing my eyes shut and desperately imagining it’s her riding my dick — will be severed.

In both directions. Not just hanging between us all bruised and battered …

thread thin and frayed because I’m a fucking selfish asshole, a coward.

If I do this …

If I do this, I can move on.

I get off the floor.

With my phone smashed, it takes me fifteen minutes, and three more choked-down mouthfuls of cereal, to find my fucking tablet. It’s five more minutes for it to turn on after I also find the charger.

I call my mother. And as I wait for her to answer, I gaze down at the instructions the chancellor has set out to auction off his eldest daughter only six months after losing his chosen heir.

Not only does the asshole want a recent and very specific medical exam and blood work, but he’s also demanding my full lineage and personal financial affidavits.

Apparently, gold diggers need not apply.

I have no doubt the royal guard is already well at work on extensive and intrusive background checks.

I know what the chancellor is looking for in the blood work. It isn’t STDs or even genetic diseases, though I’m sure any of those will be cause for rejection as well. And even as I’m pissed as fuck that Mirth is being put through all of this, those embers in my chest just won’t fucking quit.

Because my blood work will come back positive.

For the awry gene. Passed down to me from my father’s purple-eyed mother.

“Fucking Armin did this,” I mutter.

“What’s that?” my mother, Adeline, asks distractedly as the vid call connects. She’s blue eyed, tan skinned, and white blond. Like me, when my hair isn’t dyed black. “Something about Armin, darling?”

I look her in the eyes, watching as her gaze sweeps over me, and those eyes fill with concern. And pain. It hurts her to see me like this.

“I’m coming home,” I say.

“Now,” she says. It’s not a request.

I nod. “I’m walking out the door.”

“At least put on a shirt, my boy.”

I look down at myself. “I’m probably going to need shoes as well.”

“Come straight here.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

I end the call, shove the tablet in a leather satchel that I’m not sure belongs to me, find some loose cash for the train, and tug on a baseball cap in an attempt to disguise myself. I throw a sweater on over the sweatpants. Clean underwear is apparently a no-go, though.

I should hire a car.

Except I need the walk to the nearest station, which I had to look up on the tablet. Hopefully, it’s raining. A longish walk in the pouring rain would be suitably dramatic. I need the walk and the train ride to sober up.

Sober all the way up.

With no looking back.

Because once I hand the invitation and the letter over to my mother, she’s going to spring into action. Like with checklists and daily goals and everything.

Twenty-seven days.

Twenty-seven days.

I get to see Mirth in twenty-seven days.

She’ll see me too, which is a downside. But maybe I can hover protectively at the edge of things.

Because even as an arrogant, utterly entitled, self-destructive fucking rock star, I’m completely capable of graciously helping the love of my fucking life — my possibly unacknowledged soul-bound mate — choose someone else.

Right?