Page 20 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part Two

Rian stares at me for a long while. Then he smiles, radiating an amused joy. “Well, as the head of my potential bond group, I guess I should introduce you, Lord Savoy.”

Oh, fuck.

I’m the fucking head of the fucking bond group.

Rian laughs at whatever he sees on my face, then he pushes my phone back toward me. “I’ve got a list of horses I’ve been keeping an eye on. Mostly breeding stock. That should keep Elias happy.”

“For a few minutes, at least.” I swallow as much of my trepidation as I can, because I seriously thought that Elias or Christoph would be the public head of the bond group. “After you talk with your mom, we’ll … I’ll introduce you to the others.”

Rian shakes his head. “That’s between Mirth and me. I go with her.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Rian. Neither is Bolan unless Mirth rejects their bond.”

He raises his hand placatingly. “That’s not what I’m saying. But we made our own promises to each other. Mirth makes a decision first.”

I open my mouth to try to pitch the idea of being stronger as a group, just like Elias and Christoph pitched it to Bolan and me. But Rian’s gaze shoots out the window, and his shoulders tense.

I follow his gaze.

A dark-haired, dark-skinned woman in a sleek black wool coat, plaid scarf tucked under the collar, and wedge heels has paused at the edge of the building across the way. Her umbrella is angled back just enough to give her a clear view of the cafe— specifically of Rian sitting in the window.

She flares her nostrils, likely having already scented her son in the vicinity. Then she purses her lips.

Rian has frozen, seriously tense, across from me.

“This isn’t just about your parentage,” I say slowly, piecing it together. “Or that you’re bonded to Mirth. Is it?”

“No,” he says. “I’m already not living the life my mother wanted for me. I haven’t been since I sued for emancipation.”

“Normally, other people’s lives are ridiculously boring to me,” I say, smirking like the smart-ass I am. “But you might be an exception, Rian Callaghan.”

He barks an involuntary laugh, then finally drops his mother’s gaze to flash me an appreciative smile. Then, instead of charging out after her like most shifters would, he calmly picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

Intrigued despite my usual lack of interest for any relationships beyond the few I maintain, possibly badly, for myself, I watch Trina Callaghan visibly struggle between marching into the cafe or fleeing the looming confrontation with her son.

It takes only a few moments, and another steady sip of his coffee, for Rian before getting the confrontation over with wins out for his mother.

Trina crosses to the entrance, where a student holds the door open for her to enter, then leers appreciatively at her back, along with two of his friends. More shifters.

That insignificant interaction tells me a lot about Rian’s mother.

First, she doesn’t notice. She studiously ignores her son to tuck her umbrella into the rack by the door, then delicately pulls off her thin leather gloves, crossing to the counter to order a drink.

Second, Trina is definitely young enough to be pulling looks from her college-aged students, which means she likely wasn’t much older than Rian is now — almost nineteen — when she had him.

Rian’s father, aka Bolan and Livi’s father, would have been at least ten years older than her. Probably more like fifteen. Age gaps within bonded groups aren’t necessarily a nefarious thing. But still, the idea makes my stomach ache. Just a bit.

Still blatantly twisted in my seat and watching Trina, I take a sip of my cooled latte to cover my discomfort.

My third thought — as Trina’s gaze slides over me as if I’m of no consequence — is that she must not be formally bonded to a chosen mate or mates herself.

College-aged or not, the shifters at the entrance wouldn’t have leered at a bonded professor.

They’d have scented that connection — typically the exchange of essence through bite marks.

“Bonded shifters don’t normally cheat,” I murmur, low enough that I hope only Rian can hear me. “It’s a scent thing, right?”

He doesn’t answer me. But when I turn back to look at him, his expression is still smooth. Thoughtful, not angry.

“Is that put on?” I ask, strangely serious. “That calm demeanor? Because if so, can you teach it to me?”

Rian blinks at me, then cracks a surprised smile. It’s an almost sweet expression. “I’ve always been … levelheaded. And you don’t need to be taught calming techniques, Sully. Things already don’t bother you like they bother most people. Why would you want to be any different?”

Surprised in return, I sit back in my chair and stare at Rian.

He takes another sip of his espresso, grinning back at me.

“I get it,” I murmur. “I get what you bring. Why you are necessary. For all of us.”

That wipes the smile from Rian’s face, and an emotion I’m not adept at reading flits across it instead. Just for a breath. Need? But not sexual desire. Because I know those sorts of looks well, at least when directed my way.

It’s gone a second later, when his gaze flicks over my shoulder to Trina approaching the table.

Greg gets there ahead of Rian’s mother, sliding an empty chair into place at the end of the table as an excuse to make eye contact with her.

Trina falters for a moment. Her slight smile — an involuntary thank you for the proffered chair — fades, then is overtaken by a frown.

Greg isn’t in uniform. But shifter to shifter, I’m certain Trina knows a royal guard when she scents one. Or at least she knows that something more is going on than a polite gesture.

Her free hand falls to the back of the chair as her gaze sweeps from Greg to Rian, then finally to me. She’s carrying an extra-large cappuccino in her other hand and a black leather satchel on her hip, under her open jacket, presumably to keep it out of the rain.

I stretch back in my chair, smirking at the mother of one of my bond mates.

Rian might be all about staying calm in all situations — and yeah, I can feel a bit of that attempting to rub off on me — but I’m a fucking asshole when I want to be.

Trina Callaghan is on my naughty list. And not in a good way.

Greg— also a huge, unhelpful asshole— undermines me completely by saying, “Your guard has sourced a private plane for you, Lord Savoy. It is at your disposal.”

I can practically hear the capital letters in my title. “No need to piss on me, Gregory,” I say. “Ms. Callaghan isn’t a threat.”

He huffs in that cat shifter way. Then, completely unprofessionally, he side-eyes Trina a moment too long before withdrawing back to his watchful post.

I look at Rian, raising one eyebrow because I’m aware that Trina is still absorbing the info Greg just dumped on her, and I have to maintain my facade. “The royal guard must be all abuzz about you. Seems the protective mode isn’t just for me. Or Mirth.”

It makes sense. Rian’s father, Bolan and Livi’s father, would still be revered among the royal guard.

For giving his life to save Armin and his mother.

I didn’t even need to be all that dialed in to know that.

There is absolutely no way, no matter how professional they may strive to be, that Roz and Greg haven’t overheard and then shared the revelation about Rian’s parentage, at least with each other.

But I’d be surprised if there wasn’t an actual memo going around.

Rian simply nods, his gaze mostly on his mother. Trina seems frozen in place, still gripping the back of the chair with one hand.

So, proper gentleman that I am — and also, annoyingly, the highest ranked among us now that fucking Greg has outed me — I slide my chair back just enough to partly stand, smooth a hand down my suit jacket to keep it from flapping forward unbecomingly, and gesture toward the still-empty seat. “Please join us, Ms. Callaghan.”

Trina blinks at me, then finally offers a slight dip of her chin instead of the more formal curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

The chin dip is fine because technically I haven’t filed all the paperwork and formally accepted my position as lord of the House of Savoy.

It hasn’t occurred to me before, but I’m now hyperaware that upon doing all of that, then formally bonding with Mirth, I might actually be His Royal Highness, the Duke of Savoy.

That thought makes me feel slightly ill. Enough so that, even though I manage to find my seat, I lose a bit of time obsessing about it in my head.

In the interim, Trina has removed her coat, sat down, and taken a couple of sips of her cappuccino in silence.

Am I supposed to be the one to speak again? Rian wouldn’t hold me to that formality in the presence of his mother, would he?

I flick my gaze from Trina’s hands, still wrapped around her large ceramic mug, to Rian questioningly.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, gazing steadily — and still so calmly — at his mother.

So I’m not expected — by him at least — to advance the conversation. And Rian has already indicated he wants me to stay.

The cafe is filled with murmured conversation and the sounds of hot drinks being brewed and frothed, but silence stretches taut over the table. If I didn’t know better, which of course I do, I would have thought it was some essence spell stifling us all.

I’m literally seconds away from squirming to dispel the hold that silence has on me— or blurting out something completely inappropriate— when Rian finally breaks it.

“You can’t even look at me?” he asks softly.

Relief floods through me, freeing my lungs. I’m aware that only a minute has passed, but again, my meds aren’t being terribly helpful today. Though oddly, I’ve been highly functional and fairly focused with Rian.

Like I am with Mirth.

Trina visibly braces herself as she steadily meets her son’s eyes. She lifts her coffee as if to take a sip, but then angles her gaze toward me. Pointedly.