Page 9 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part Two

Roz grimaces at my silence, which feels like its own sort of chastisement.

The trust and respect between us is necessary for our relationship to function, but we can’t be friends.

No matter what I might want. I’m also not really Roz’s employer.

She’s assigned to protect me, but she has no authority over what I do. Or who I choose to spend time with.

Instead of apologizing for overstepping, which in turn would force me to apologize for there even being anything to overstep, she finally says, “Plus, Raoul is insisting on hourly proof-of-life updates.”

I laugh quietly, hoping she’s exaggerating. Otherwise, she really isn’t getting any sleep. “I’m just going to walk down to the pond. And yes, alone. With the way the property slopes, you should be able to see me from the back patio. Though I might walk a little farther through the wooded area …”

Roz struggles to not look completely put out.

Or maybe she’s just uncomfortable with …

me? With the shifting in my relationships and my position?

She referenced my ability to know if anyone was nearby.

I never thought that the potential of what I can do, what I can destroy, might worry my guards.

Mostly because I’ve kept it all so tightly tamped down for so long.

Grinning playfully — because I can’t focus on another set of potential problems right now — I tug my phone out of my pocket and wave it at her. “You’ve got me tracked every minute of every day.”

“It’s not like that,” Roz grumbles.

I laugh. Then I head into the house to grab some boots.

The Yates country home — an odd name, because the family doesn’t have a city home — didn’t originally include the section of property that contains the pond, replete with duck house and a multitude of ducks, or the wooded hectarage that spreads out beyond the three-level red-brick house.

Three levels if you count the attic, anyway.

Those sections of property had been sold off years before the current generation of the Yates family settled here.

As far as Bolan understood, his mother repurchased those sections after his father’s death.

She also paid off the remaining mortgage on the house with the money from her husband’s royal guard life insurance.

Tuition funds were set aside for Bolan and his sister Olivia as well.

Bolan was immediately enrolled in the Prague Phrontistery, joining Armin and me in our first year there.

The deliberate intent to pair Bolan and Armin, whose life Bolan’s father had died protecting, was now obvious from my adult perspective.

But not much thought about by my seven-year-old self.

Olivia, more commonly known as Livi, is three years older than Bolan.

She was already an accomplished dancer at age twelve when their father died.

She enrolled in a private, extremely competitive conservatory instead of the Phrontistery.

Now a lauded ballet dancer, Livi lives at home between performances, her studio tucked away on the western edge of the property.

The two much younger half-siblings, Sophia and Emily, use their father’s surname, Harris, not Yates.

Age twelve and fourteen, the sisters currently attend a local school.

I’m not certain their father and Adeline were ever formally married, or even mated in the shifter way through exchanged bites.

As far as I know, they haven’t been romantically involved since the girls were quite young.

David Harris was never a prominent figure in Bolan’s life, and therefore not in Armin’s or my life either, though they got along well enough.

Bolan’s father, James— the father he shares with Rian— had been dead for over five years before Emily was even conceived.

All of that ancient history flits through my mind as I wander down toward the pond, wellies squelching in the wet grass and Armin’s marble urn weighing down the backpack on my shoulders.

I pause near the water’s edge, scanning the long reeds, still thick and green along the circumference, for swans or ducks but seeing none.

I can feel the house at my back. Or perhaps that’s Adeline’s and Roz’s gazes resting upon me?

Either way, it’s … slightly … disturbing.

More an itch than anything nefarious, but it keeps me moving.

I skirt around the pond toward the wooded area, the reeds snagging in my duster as I traverse a narrow foot-worn path.

We paddled around the pond in an old rowboat when we were younger, though the wooden boat launch we also used for sunbathing has been removed for the winter.

Or maybe removed altogether, along with the boat.

I haven’t been here for longer than a quick visit in years. Bolan moved out when he left school, taking early graduation to focus on his music.

I should be focusing my thoughts on Armin.

On why I felt the need to leave a piece of him here, one of the places he knew only pure happiness.

Adeline did her best to treat us the same as her own children, and Bolan — even when he was Oliver — always outright refused to use our titles or treat us any differently than anyone else.

When Bolan wasn’t being epically charming to everyone, he was a complete asshole. There was no in-between. Offish. Angry. Dismissive.

Except … not to me.

He and Armin fought. But like brothers, it always seemed to me.

The path cuts deeper into the woods that encase the far side of the pond.

Tall, slim trees close around me, and I breathe deeply, mindfully.

Buds are just starting to form on the silver birch that are well spaced apart in this section of the wooded area.

It’s newer growth, though old enough that the white, papery bark is peeling on most of the trees.

Adeline had the birch planted when she reclaimed the property.

Keeping the pond vaguely to my left, I leave the main path to walk among the trees for a few more minutes until the itch between my shoulder blades eases.

I note another foot-worn trail— or rather, worn by wolves’ paws — leading back to the pond and a gap in the reeds edging the water.

I allow it to pull me back to my purpose.

Crouching, I tug off my backpack and place it on some already flattened reeds in an attempt to keep it out of the mud.

The still water is green and not remotely clear.

As I watch, delicate rings punctuate the surface in a few places.

From fish coming up for air or to eat a bug.

Still no swans or ducks, though. Maybe they’re happy in their house. Or Adeline has gotten rid of them.

I pull the marble urn out of my backpack, cradling it to my chest, and just … aching. It’s a strange ache, though. Pervasive, but almost tender. Poignant.

I carefully open the lid of the urn, thankful that Sully’s sealing spell doesn’t disperse under my touch. I pull out a handful of ashes, losing a bunch as I stretch my clasped hand out over the water.

I realize that I’m mourning more than just Armin in coming here. I’m saying goodbye to our shared childhood and the friendship and love that might have been so much more —

I feel him a moment before I realize he’s standing on the far edge of the pond with the house at his back. That unwanted awareness I always have in his vicinity.

Bolan.

He stands with his head cocked to one side, bright-eyed gaze riveted to me and glimmering with the essence of his wolf.

One of his hands is shoved in the front pocket of his torn, age-worn black jeans, while the other hangs loose at his side.

His black sweater is also worn, fraying at the hem and neckline, and long enough to cover his knuckles.

My chest starts aching in earnest. Something torn and ragged lurks in the depths of that pain. Still crouched with my handful of ashes clutched in one hand, I press the urn against my rib cage with the other. Grinding the marble between my breasts as if it might shield me.

But the pain only sharpens, jagged and torn. That soul-deep agony has grown so much worse since Armin died. Worse each time I’m near Bolan, as if Armin was a buffer between us. I don’t understand why except … except …

No. I know why.

I know why.

I know that Bolan —

No. I know what Oliver did. All those years ago.

I know.

I’ve just been in denial. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. Because it’s so, so much worse than a simple kiss or a childhood crush.

Across the water from me, Bolan stiffens, pressing a hand to his chest and grunting quietly in pain. The sound travels across the still water.

A terrible anger, edged with despair, explodes through me, emanating from my chest and through my limbs. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking under the onslaught of my own emotions.

I know this is an overreaction, verging on unhinged, but I —

Bolan is suddenly behind me. I don’t open my eyes, but I can feel him, even as I try to regain some control of myself.

“Mirth,” he murmurs.

I don’t answer. The pain writhing in my chest won’t let me speak. Crouched with one hand still extended over the edge of the pond, I clutch the pitiful handful of Armin’s ashes so hard that my nails feel as if they’re cutting into my skin. My entire arm is shaking.

Then Bolan curls around me, his chest to my back. His knees in the mud, legs brushing against mine. He reaches forward, not otherwise touching me, until he curls his fingers under the wrist of my extended hand.

He holds me there, steadies me.

My arm stops shaking.

I manage a ragged breath.

So, so slowly and gently, his other arm comes around me, finding and pressing his hand over my other hand as well, so that we’re both cradling the urn to my chest.

I take another breath, feeling my back expanding against his chest.

He’s warm.