Page 40 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

He catches my eye through the glass door. Smirking knowingly, he raises the joint he’s smoking in greeting. He must have already maxed out his meds today if he’s smoking to numb his senses further before the sure-to-be sensory onslaught of the dinner and ball.

Eyes still locked to mine, Sully leans his head back as he takes a long toke.

Frozen in place, I stare mutely at the long lines of his neck.

Bolan slips by me with a huff, crossing to unlock the balcony door. I realize suddenly that he didn’t actually scale the exterior of the castle, but rather crawled over from one balcony to the other, using the cast moldings or whatever other sturdy points he could find as foot- and handholds.

“She’s pissed at us,” Bolan says as he opens the balcony door.

“No.” Sully snubs out the joint on the stone railing, then tucks the remainder in the wings of the nearest stone gargoyle.

“Mir is pissed at you. Mir is perpetually pissed at you.” He saunters into the living area, sweeping a gaze over me and grinning widely even as he continues taunting Bolan. “Why is that, Ollie?”

Bolan shuts the door, engaging the lock without answering.

Sully is wearing a purple tux so dark that it’s practically black, but as he approaches me, the firelight plays across it, and the true color becomes obvious.

I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. I close it, firming my stance even as I become hyperaware that my only armor is a fully made-up face, artfully coiled hair, and a thin layer of silk.

Sully raises one sculpted eyebrow in my direction. He’s lined his gray eyes in a smoky quartz — more subtly than Bolan — with a hit of silver shadow at the inner corners. “Why are you so angry with poor Bolan, Mir?”

He’s picked up the twins’ nickname for me. It’s playful and suggestive — or would be if I ever allowed myself to read anything into any of the charm-infused words that fall from Sully’s lush lips.

I don’t. But that nickname doesn’t hurt my heart at all.

As close as we were, as close as we are, I never outright told Sully about my desperate crush on Bolan when we were teens.

Or about his rejection. Or how I always had to be a little bit mad in response to the vast variety of ire-inducing acts that Bolan is so adept at — just to function in his presence for all the years after that.

I’m currently so angry at Bolan that I can barely look at him. And it has nothing to do with that stupid crush or his rejection.

It has nothing to do with the devastating essence surge triggered by that rejection. The surge that took me away from the Phrontistery, kept me from Armin. Kept me under my disappointed father’s tutelage for six months after.

No. I’m angry because if Bolan wasn’t such a selfish asshole, Armin might not be —

Almost unconsciously, I wrap my fingers around my neck, as if I might contain the emotion threatening to erupt forth at the mere thought, the mere imagining, of the moments before Armin’s death. All the choices that led to him being on that mountain without anyone at his side.

Sully’s step hitches. His concerned gaze snaps to mine, as if he can feel —

I shut my eyes. Because maybe he can feel it. Maybe my abilities are slipping my hold. Again.

I push it all away. Coolly sarcastic, I say, “I see the protocol lessons went well for both of you.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Bolan mutters, throwing himself down on one of the couches before the fire.

A plate of cheese, fruit, crackers, and nuts is laid out on the coffee table.

He leans forward to study it. The plate, along with the fire and the sparkling water in a silver jug, would have been set up on Anne’s orders.

Because I likely won’t eat or drink much during dinner. I never do when in public.

Sully closes the space between us, somewhat blocking my view of Bolan. “I learned all sorts of interesting facts. For example, asking consent from a princess isn’t actually a thing.”

“What?” I sputter, distracted. “Of course it is …”

“Apparently, you can only be outright invited to touch, to kiss, a princess. So …” Sully ghosts his hands over my jaw, over my cheeks, cupping my face without touching me.

I loosen my grip on my neck, hand falling to my side as I automatically tilt my head back.

He murmurs his next words close enough to my lips that I can feel the warm brush of his breath. “I’m going to have to tease you, bait you, until you beg me, Mir.”

I make another of those inarticulate sounds. I’m not sure if it’s a groan of desire or if I’m protesting.

Sully’s gaze falls between us. Legitimately relieved by the lessening of the intense eye contact, I sway slightly into him. His hands lower, still hovering over my body. Without touching me, he cinches my dressing gown closed. It hasn’t fully fallen open, but silk slides against silk, and …

My eyes dart up to his face, but his gaze is still averted as he secures the sash with just a touch of his essence.

He’s … there’s a hint of color on his cheeks …

I dart a look over his shoulder. Bolan has twisted toward us, one hand resting on the low table and one hand on the back of the couch. Watching us.

In the moment before he notices me looking at him, Bolan looks … sad? But more as if he’s lost something —

The door to the suite opens. Anne hustles in. She’s wearing a light-gold full-length wrap-style silk dress. She pauses just inside the door, blinking at me, then taking in Sully, then Bolan.

“Oh,” she finally says. “Good. Sully. You’ll help Mirth get into her dress? Mimi and Tavi have been roped into service by the Mertons. Apparently, our lack of ability to house all the staff they would have preferred to bring is … irksome.”

No titles in private. No formalities.

Unless I impose them.

But only after I explicitly lift those protocols in the first place.

That was Sully’s point. About protocol.

“Yes, of course.” Sully grins widely and wickedly. “Why else would I be in Her Royal Highness’s suite?”

Anne huffs, playfully pleased. “I have your father waiting to escort you,” she says to me.

“Escort me?” I echo, abruptly displeased.

“We’ll go straight through to dinner,” Anne says, ignoring my tone. “The rest of the guests will start arriving around nine for the ball.”

“Of course,” I say. I did know that already, but apparently I’m still having issues with holding everything in my head all at once. As if new information is at constant war with the continual grief and the continual state of overwhelm.

Anne casts a look over all three of us again, then smirks. “Ten minutes. Or I’ll send in the twins.”

Sully raises his hands in surrender.

Anne steps back the way she came, snagging the door closed.

“Well, this is going to be a blast,” Bolan says sarcastically.

“It will be awful to do sober,” Sully says blithely over his shoulder.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Not today. But I do like it when you beg.”

I huff, spinning away from them both.

Sully attempts to follow me, but stops instantly at my snapped, “No!”

Bolan’s laughter follows me back through to my bedroom, then beyond the door that I slam in my wake.

I put on the decadently voluminous silk ballgown skirt and the beaded bustier. Then I carefully slip a diamond-crusted platinum coronet into my perfectly coiffed hair.

Because if they want a fucking princess, I’ll give them a fucking princess.