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

S ALVATORE

The rainy, cobbled streets of Dublin speed past beyond the fog-edged windows of the armored vehicle masquerading as an SUV that was waiting for us at the airport.

Bulletproof glass is raised between the back seat and the driver.

Greg, the royal guard cat shifter now begrudgingly dogging my every step, essentially interrogated the local royal guard recruit about his background and qualifications before settling in with me.

I’ve cracked the window despite the rain, itching to lower it even further for the fresh air.

The commercial flight to Dublin was utter chaos for my senses.

I already didn’t want to leave Mirth. I understand why she needs to work through her grief, as much as doing so is even possible, but I still want to be forever at her side.

I’ve been doing a lot of things I don’t necessarily want to do, just in the last forty-eight hours alone.

Such as giving Bolan a heads-up that Mirth was heading out to his family property.

So maybe that’s all just a shock to my bratty, self-centered system.

But my meds aren’t helping, and I can’t smoke one of my joints in public.

And yes, I tried to book a private flight. I barely managed to secure two seats in what passed for first class on the pond hopper between London and Dublin. Fucking Greg insisted on not only sitting together, so I couldn’t book a row to myself, but also taking the aisle seat. For security reasons.

I’m already sick of that phrase — for security reasons — which I’ve heard a half-dozen times in the last day. But according to Mirth, I can’t just ‘gad about town’ if I’m also going to accept my title. Hence the security detail.

I suppose it’s my fault for not actually outright owning a fucking plane. But I don’t really want to own anything. As soon as I had a chance to liquidate everything my father had accumulated, I had done so.

Greg, stuffed into the seat to my left, angles the screen of his phone. I read the headline — Lord Savoy Uncovered! — and don’t bother scanning anything else.

“Eli is going to be pissed,” I murmur, looking out the window again as we pass through a Georgian-era-inspired section of the city. “He wanted to control the narrative. And the timing.”

“He’ll get used to it.” As the car slows to a stop at a light, Greg’s energy gathers tightly around him for a moment.

Then he does that thing where he checks the immediate area — in this case, beyond the vehicle — for any threats without moving from his seat, barely moving his head, and without making it at all obvious that’s what he’s doing.

“Where are they now?” I ask, even though I’m certain the shifter is sick of me nagging him, and not at all accustomed to my habit of rapidly changing the subject.

“Safe,” he says. The first few times I asked, he gave me more details about Mirth and Roz and showed me the last text message he received from his fellow royal guard.

But he quickly figured out that too many details aren’t what I need to feel settled.

Well, as settled as I can be when completely out of my comfort zone with my meds failing.

At the very least, my meds aren’t doing what I want them to do right now, which is focus me without smothering all my senses. Instead, I keep getting jolts to my system — including vicious, stabbing-pain headaches — even as everything feels all muffled in wool batting. It’s a fucked-up combo.

“We don’t know each other very well,” I say.

“I know my duty, Lord Savoy,” Greg says stiffly.

That’s not what I meant at all. “You were on Armin’s detail.”

Greg’s shoulders tighten, and he nods stiffly. Not looking at me. But then, when paired one-on-one like this, a royal guard usually watches everything but the person they’re guarding.

“You weren’t with him. On the ski trip,” I say, not certain if I’m prying or trying to make him feel better about losing Armin.

“No.” He clears his throat, glances at me quickly, then looks away.

I wonder if the driver can feel Greg’s gaze drilling into the back of his head through the bulletproof glass.

Or if the pilots felt it all the way into the cockpit, which Greg made certain he had in his line of sight during the flight.

“Can you fly?”

“It’s a requirement. At this level, at least.”

I laugh quietly to myself. Of course he can fly a plane, even though all the Royal Highnesses have their own planes and crew.

Unfortunately, Mirth’s plane wasn’t in London.

Plus, if I took off in it, then she would have known I wasn’t dutifully checking things off the stupid list that Eli keeps updating.

Every time I glance at my phone, there’s another fucking thing he wants me to buy.

The last text was about some art installation that needs a donation or a fucking patron or fuck knows.

I barely looked at it. Plus I’m getting dozens of other text messages and emails from people I barely know— and I have no idea how they got my contact info— all of them piling up on my notification screen.

“Do you know how to make it so only the text messages I want come through?” I ask, even though I fucking loathe asking anyone I don’t know well for help. “Like, as a priority? It’s … it’s not helpful right now.”

Greg doesn’t even blink at the request. “One of the royal guard tech mages can completely reorganize your phone and add extra security measures at the same time.”

“Remotely? Like, right now?”

He nods. “Just need to give them access.”

I unlock my phone, then eagerly drop it into his open palm. It was starting to feel like an explosive device in my hand. “Just Mirth, please. Bolan, Christoph, and Elias. I … I don’t have Rian’s number yet.”

“I can get it for you.”

“No. That’s for me to do.”

Greg just nods, translating my directions into text message form.

“And Fluff and Fizz, my assistants. Everyone else can just … wait. Or reach me through F&F.”

Greg’s thumbs are flying across the screen, texting someone not in my contacts list. The tech, I assume.

“And Eli has that note document thing he keeps updating,” I say, gazing back out the window and already feeling lighter.

“I can’t outright block him this early in our relationship.

Oh, and my fucking law firm. I suppose I can’t block them either.

They’re seriously freaking out. Like, in glee, ever since I had them make that lump-sum investment in Christoph’s vineyard.

Plus I’m buying all this shit that Eli thinks I need to own now. We need to own. For the bond group.”

“And your socials?” Greg asks, clearly reading the question off the text chain he’s now got going on my phone.

“Fluff and Fizz run them. Mostly. So they’ll still need access. Why the fuck doesn’t the archduke of Austria have a security detail?” I ask, fairly caustically. “Christoph is, like, fifth in line for the fucking throne, isn’t he?”

“He’s monitored, but refused a personal detail,” Greg says. “That wasn’t an option for you.”

The cat shifter sounds just a little smug about that. But if Mirth needs to know I’m as safe as I can be, then I don’t give a shit if the royal guard thinks I’m a pushover for her. Christoph will fold just as fast if given the chance.

Silence stretches between us until a cloud-shrouded university campus comes into view, then we start winding through the narrow streets that stretch between buildings. Unlike the city center of Dublin, the campus of the University College Dublin is mostly mid-twentieth-century architecture.

“You know exactly where he is?” I ask, meaning Rian— and knowing I shouldn’t be surprised at the response.

“We do.”

“Since I asked you to take me to him?”

Greg smirks, just a little. “Since he stepped off the property.”

Left Lake Thun Castle, he means. “So you track all of us?”

Greg hands my phone back to me. “Anyone important to Her Royal Highness always has some kind of overwatch.”

“The kids? You got Tommy that phone Mirth wanted him to have?”

“I did. Had to practically blackmail him to get him to take it from me.”

I bark out an involuntary laugh, already liking the little asshole way too much for someone I haven’t even met yet. But then, I’d probably love anyone Mirth picked. My soul is aligned with hers, after all.

“So you’re tracking the kids too?”

Greg grimaces. “The phone is rigged with all the same security, plus tracking hardware and software, but … they’re minors. And we don’t really have any jurisdiction. Not legally.”

“But Mirth feels like she has some connection to them.”

“She does.” He hesitates for a moment. Again, we don’t know each other very well. “I haven’t been on Mirth’s detail for long, and she’s been … deep in mourning for most of our time together. But I … I already know to trust her, to trust her instincts. She’s not just …”

“Some pampered princess,” I say, just a little mockingly. “Or some wildcard. Not like Armin.”

Greg checks his own phone, swiping through a few notifications, so I let the topic drop until the SUV pulls to a stop at the back entrance to one of the university buildings.

A smooth, near-white concrete block speckled with perfectly matching square windows, which are barred on the lowest level. Three or so storeys tall.

Greg reaches for the handle of his door.

“I don’t want to be dragging you with me into every conversation,” I say.

He nods curtly. “I’ll see you to where you need to go, then give you as much space as the situation allows.”

So ‘always within sight,’ he means. And definitely within hearing— for a cat shifter, at least. I doubt that any of it is negotiable.

Being around Armin and Mirth since we were kids has made me accustomed to that type of oversight when in public spaces, but having my movements curtailed, and the lack of privacy, is already chafing me.