Page 4 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

But I’m not a fast enough runner, or fit enough, to get as far as I already know I need to go, far enough to sleep a couple of hours at least. I need to get away from the castle itself, so that the pressure of sleeping over the intersection point stops making me feel as if I’m on the verge of coming out of my skin.

It’s never been, never felt, this intense before. Not even when … not even at fifteen … in the aftermath of kissing —

I shove the memory away. Mostly because it lends too much credence to my father’s unflattering assessment, and pointed assertions, about my abilities being tied to my emotional and mental state. Or rather, my lack of true ability.

I sweep my unruly mess of hair back into a high ponytail, knowing it’s doomed to fail the moment I get on Perseus’s back and we make a break for the nearest trail.

The fucked-up chosen-mate matching event my father is proposing absolutely cannot happen on these grounds.

Normally that wouldn’t be an issue because my father doesn’t invite relative strangers to his seat of power.

But I’m concerned that his need to protect what is his — namely me — will sway his usual resolve to minimize the contact others have with the intersection point .

The early morning is dark, cloud shrouded, though a half moon intermittently shimmers through thinner patches of that cloud.

Tiny flakes of snow filter down from the otherwise starless sky.

Not even a hint of the pending sunrise tinges the horizon as I slip out a side door.

I immediately dart across the short yard to half-jog down the narrow stone stairway that twists down from the cliff on which the towering edifice of Waterfell Castle is perched.

Kilometers away, deep in a valley nestled between neighboring peaks, I glimpse the faint, sporadic lights that emanate from the nearest town, before the path at the bottom of the stairway abruptly changes direction.

The few castle guards, both mages and shifters, patrolling the various ramparts and posted in the towers above ignore me. Not that I look back.

My breath comes out in chilled puffs.

Tiny mage lights trigger as I descend, situated at ankle height so as not to compromise my sight. If I were a null without the ability to actively wield essence, I’d be stumbling around in the dark.

Despite my light sensitivity, I’ve never been much of a fan of the dark. Though curling up on a winter’s eve next to a fire with a book, sipping a hot chocolate, and reading by candlelight is a hazy memory …

Or possibly an unrequited dream.

Before that stupid kiss. Before he shoved me away with pure pain etched across his face, as if I … as if my touch was … is …

I resolve to shred that stupid list of names the moment I get back to my rooms. I wasn’t thinking … in fact, I’m still not certain I moved the pen of my own volition. I never would have rationally chosen to put his name down.

He belongs to Armin more than me, anyway.

Belonged .

Past tense.

I can’t remember the last time I managed to maintain any level of rationality, not even for a full day.

Was it the day before I felt my chest crack open and my soul sunder?

While I attended some fucking charity event, commenting on the pretty fucking flowers and smiling at children, even as I wondered why my chest was hurting and my texts were going unanswered.

Assuming the entire time that Armin had gone on a bender or was romancing someone new for the weekend instead of checking in with me.

A rare but occasional occurrence when he needed … when he needed to run …

Just as I now practically ran, tripping down the path, through the snowy early morning.

Had I still been rational as I raced to the mountain township to identify my brother? Before I found him so … empty, and still. So silent.

Armin. Armin was even more trapped than I am.

Or rather, more trapped than I used to be. But never as trapped as I am now.

Because my father never would have forced Armin to choose bond mates only six months after my death. Armin would have been granted more time.

My heart pounds almost painfully against my ribcage, my face completely flushed, as I finally reach the lower valley.

Or at least the first of many lower valleys.

The tiny town, still unseen beyond the slope of the mountain, is situated in the next valley down.

The airport is situated in the valley beyond that.

And so forth. In the daylight, I would have also been able to see the narrow, perilous road leading through those valleys and up to the castle.

The early morning is so silent and still that I can hear the continual rush of the waterfall on the far side of the castle.

The stables, barns, fields, greenhouses, and gardens — all still winter fallow — stretch out across the wide ledge before me.

Enough soil has been cultivated here to sustain the castle’s need for produce and fruit year-round.

Sheep, goats, and cows occupy more distant fields.

And there’s a smaller chicken coop that services the staff quarters beyond the stables, for those staff members who don’t live in the castle itself.

I don’t care about, or really see, any of that, as I continue my now heart-punishing jog to the night-shrouded stables.

I easily disengage the alarm on the side door with a casual swipe of my hand across the palm reader.

It reads my essence, which even as useless as it feels is still impossible to truly mimic.

I’m hit by a tension-melting warmth, along with the scent of hay, feed, and horses as I yank open the door.

Clean, but still musky. I slow my pace, gently shutting the door behind me.

I pad through the now-comforting dark, helped along by intermittent washes of moonlight filtering through the high windows, as well as some low, yellow-tinted lighting that triggers as I traverse the space.

Perseus is waiting in his stall, flicking his dark-brown ears thoughtfully at my approach. He has an intricate starburst of white in the center of his forehead.

I don’t pause to think about how little he and I know each other. I’ve ridden him a few times in the last six months, but not in the deep dark of the very early morning.

I’ve never been thrown. But riding any horse at night is ridiculous, let alone a still-half-wild stallion.

So I don’t think about it.

Instead, I focus on the freedom I’ll find astride him. I anticipate molding myself to his big body, borrowing the power of his back, of his legs, until I too feel whole and capable. Even if just for those few moments.

My essence — that tiny bit I passively allow myself to wield — might be near worthless when compared to the power my father commands. But it means that without even trying, when I open his stall, Perseus follows me out of the stable and into the night.

I guide him to the nearest ring, then step back to grab the most basic tack I can manage safely.

Perseus tosses his head at the sight of the saddle, dancing away from me playfully, though his big ears flick and flick again.

I set the saddle over the rail, abandoning it impulsively for just a bridle.

But still Perseus tosses his head and shies sideways as I slip into the ring with it.

I pause, turning my back to him and gazing up at the cloud-shrouded half moon overhead.

I never know whether the moon is waxing or waning unless I look it up.

Never forced myself to cement the difference in my head.

I left my phone in my rooms, though, so I couldn’t check it now even if I wanted to.

I breathe, willing myself to focus on nothing more than the frozen ground underfoot and the crisp air filling my lungs. I’m lightly sweaty from my jog and cooling fast. Normally I hate being cold, but I embrace the numbness slowly being forced upon me now.

Perseus huffs into the hair at my neck, nosing the back of my head gently. I reach up and gently caress his long, broad nose.

I don’t try to set the bit in yet. I just loosely loop the reins over his neck.

That won’t give me much control even when I get sorted, but I’m more than capable of riding bareback.

Using his mane for handholds, I twist around in a fluid motion that I’ve been able to do since I was seven, often with horses twice as tall as me.

I get a leg over his shoulders. Feeling the muscles of his back reacting, shifting, bunching under me, I shift my handholds so I can get fully upright .

I don’t make it.

Perseus bucks, viciously and without warning, nearly throwing me.

I compensate. But he tosses his head hard enough to almost rip free of my hold, leaving handfuls of his gorgeous dark mane twined through my fingers as he lunges forward for the fence.

I’m half hanging off him, barely holding on.

He’s going to drive me into the fucking fence.

I’ve got time to throw myself free.

I might even have time to tuck my face into his neck, so he manages to only swipe my leg against the rail.

But I don’t.

No matter how stupid it is to come out at night and ride a horse who barely knows me, the fact that he doesn’t accept me just reflects how my essence has twisted, and —

Someone shouts from the direction of the stables, loud enough to startle Perseus off course.

Then rough hands are hauling me off the horse’s back. My hair is more than half out of my ponytail, falling in my face. My sweater is bunched in those unrelenting hands while a blisteringly delivered litany of Old Gaelic curses boxes my ears.

My completely pissed rescuer continues swearing, not allowing me to get my own feet under me as he hauls me back through the fence. Pausing only long enough to shut the gate, he shoves me the final few steps until he’s pinning me against the rough side of the stables.

He’s not rescuing me.

He’s protecting the horse still dancing and snorting in the ring. Protecting Perseus from me.