Page 39 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

My father places a hand to the small of my back, his epic power zipping back and forth between us as if it’s both attracted and repelled by my own perpetually stifled essence. Then he gives me a slight push back toward the garden path.

Apparently, I’m too disheveled to walk through the grand entrance on my way back to my rooms. Thusly dismissed, and more peeved about it than I should be, I tug lightly on my sweater to straighten it. One of the huge curlers, now only half attached to my hair, whacks me in the cheek.

“Oh yes, the protocol lessons,” Sully says smoothly. But definitely mocking now. “I’m sure certain others have things to learn, but I’m well-versed, Chancellor —”

“And clearly out of practice.” My father’s tone is unbroachable.

Even Sully has to admit defeat in response, which he does with a stiff bow.

Walking as swiftly as I can without actually looking as if I’m scuttling off in shame, I head back through the gardens. But I glance back as I round the low hedge at the side of the stairs.

Sully is watching me from just inside the main doors.

Bolan has just finished greeting my father. But even as he crosses to join Sully, he’s watching me instead.

Tall, sleek, and perfectly put together in a bespoke gray suit, Elias steps forward to shake my father’s hand.

Christoph, in a dark-brown suit that is most definitely custom tailored to fit the mountain of a shifter, is only a step behind the earl.

All of their gazes are intent, intense .

On me.

I stumble slightly, grabbing at the stone railing of the stairs as another rush of that heady, otherworldly feeling slithers through me again.

I recognize it the second time. It’s not deja vu. It’s not some previously locked seer power.

It’s a softer version of the feeling, the impulse, that had me jotting all their names on a piece of paper a month ago.

I thought … I thought I hallucinated that list.

Yet here they all are.

But … my father said something about spoiling a surprise, so maybe it has nothing to do with any essence-fueled list-making. Especially because I left Rian behind at Waterfell Castle without a second face-to-face encounter — though I’ve enjoyed his penchant for naughty text messages ever since.

Rian’s name was also on my list.

But Bolan isn’t a suitor my father would approve.

Neither is Sully … or at least he wouldn’t have been before claiming his title.

The earl and the duke are both exceedingly viable.

But they’re unbonded. Clearly, I’ve been less than aware, less engaged, over the last few months, so it’s possible that Christoph or Elias have recently chosen bond mates I don’t know about …

But … I need to find chosen strong enough to hold the intersection point. According to my father, I must do so quickly. Meaning that … none of these four are options.

So why invite them?

My earlier reaction … the glowing eyes that came with a significant enough shift in my essence that it scared the twins …

Is it possible that without Armin to balance me, I’m … my control is slipping? My emotions are leaking?

I shove the thought away. I was just shocked at Sully’s presence. Happy, then shocked. Coupled with the ever-present grief, it was just too much to navigate for a brief moment. Nothing to read too much into.

I climb the stairs and take the same route in reverse, avoiding the more heavily trafficked halls as I go back to my rooms.

But before I resign myself to being locked away for the next few hours as Anne’s stylists finish crafting the perfect-princess persona out of my outer shell, I slip into the bathroom and take a moment to look at Rian’s sexy selfie.

I don’t text him. Because even I understand that — exchanged selfies, texts, and other unfulfilled promises or not — it was just the one night between us.

Not only can’t I ask for more, he can’t give it.

No. None of the people on that hallucinated list are strong enough to be mine. And not because of any fault on their part.

I’m the purple-eyed princess not fit to be the heir to the intersection point and all the power that comes with it.

Still, selfishly … I’m so, so happy that Sully is here, and that he’s planning to stay. And for the memory, the moment, even if that is all it is, with Rian.

Just because I ultimately need to bond with an established, already powerful bond group doesn’t mean I can’t greedily have these moments with chosen friends as well.

I hope.

The dresses from the Paris fashion show are laid out on my bed.

The high-necked, sleeveless, pastel-lilac silk tunic dress and the voluminous silk ballgown skirt of the same color.

The skirt is paired with a beaded bustier instead of the oversized sweater the model wore on the runway.

There are no fabulous, thick-heeled black boots in sight, but the outfits are laid out as if both are an option.

For me to wear. Tonight.

Which means that although Chloe and Camille presumably made contact with the designer, the dresses — presented to me in this particular moment — are a gift from Anne.

Two very different choices. And neither of them remotely like anything I would normally wear …

The mage stylists, Mimi and Tavi, have finished with me and so have slipped away to see if anyone else needs help with their attire or makeup.

After resetting my ruined curlers, they spent the remainder of the afternoon on my makeup and elaborately styling my hair.

While I tried to not obsess about the … spectacle of it all.

While I tried to not think about the brush of Sully’s lips against mine.

I run my fingers down the ballgown skirt, noting with surprise that the huge emerald of Armin’s ring on my finger pops against the lighter lilac silk. My hips and ass would look huge in the skirt. But my waist would look tiny cinched in the bustier … and I might actually have cleavage —

Movement draws my attention away from the bed and out through the balcony windows. It’s full dark already, and he’s wearing an all-black suit, so it takes me a moment to realize that someone is climbing over the side of the stone balcony railing.

Bolan.

Shifter or not, there is absolutely no way — dressed in a formal tux and shiny dress shoes — that the glam rock god has scaled the side of the castle without disturbing the wards. Which means —

I stride around the bed, abruptly angry and not bothering to stifle it.

I must legitimately startle Bolan, because after pausing to straighten his suit, he raises his hands slightly, backing up against the far railing at my approach. His shockingly blue eyes are lined in black, because even forced into a tux, Bolan apparently has to be a rock star.

I try to fling the glass balcony door open dramatically, but it’s locked. So I lose a lot of steam trying to figure out the mechanism.

“Lift up,” Bolan says through the glass. “Up on the handle, then twist the lock.”

“I am!” I insist.

“Here. Step back,” he says, grasping the handle from the other side. “I’ll do it.”

“I’m perfectly capable of opening a door, Bolan.”

“Let me … let me help, Mirth. I’ll lift, and you —”

“I’ve got it. It’s just stuck.”

Bolan snaps the exterior levered handle off.

In my hand, the lock twists open easily.

Bolan stumbles slightly back, still blinking at the broken handle in his grasp.

The door swings open, just a handful of centimeters.

Eyes widening at me through the glass door, Bolan opens his mouth, likely to apologize.

I interrupt by slamming my hand against the door, shoving it all the way open. “What are you doing?” I snarl.

Bolan shoves the handle behind his back, as if I hadn’t noticed him snapping it off.

I place my hands on my hips, opening my mouth to lambast him, when a gust of icy wind sweeps through the open door, hitting me full face.

Full chest.

I’ve apparently forgotten I’m wearing a thin dusty-rose silk dressing gown. With only lacy panties underneath. No bra.

I shiver.

My nipples go uncomfortably tight.

Bolan’s gaze drops to my chest.

I flush. Stupidly, I cross my arms protectively across my breasts. Then, already flustered, I involuntarily step back when Bolan crowds into me, entering my rooms without permission.

I sputter … something, some inarticulate sound.

But Bolan just turns back to secure the door. The locking mechanism apparently works just fine now that the handle is broken.

“Sully can fix it,” Bolan says.

“What?” I gape at him, arms still crossed protectively, if rather childishly, across my chest.

Bolan tosses the broken handle in one hand, stepping forward to crowd up against me again. “The door.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond — and I’m honestly and abruptly overwhelmed by his close proximity. He just leans into me, brushing his cheek against mine.

Heat radiates across my skin in tiny shivers and prickles from that bare point of contact.

I squeeze my arms tighter across my chest, armoring myself against it. Bolan always feels wild like this … under my skin … making me want —

He whispers in my ear, “I’ve missed you, baby girl.”

It’s the ‘baby’ part of that non-term of endearment that triggers a sharp rise in my anger again. It’s enough to counter the ridiculous amount of want, of need , that aches through me whenever I’m in Bolan’s presence. Thankfully.

Blatantly ignoring his shifter-sharp hearing considering how close he is, I don’t bother to whisper. “Fuck you, Bolan. ”

He reels back. But I’m already spinning away, striding toward the main room of my suite, so I don’t see if he’s angry or stunned or what.

I’m through the bedroom and into the living area, washed by the light of a blazing fire in the stone fireplace.

I’m almost to the old-fashioned phone perched on an antique table next to the entrance — intent on alerting a guard to Bolan’s presence in my suite — when I see Sully loitering on the large empty balcony outside.