“Also,” Greg adds just before he steps out of the vehicle, “you’ll meet the rest of your security detail when we get back to London, Lord Savoy.” He’s intentionally rubbing it in a bit, like a dominant asshole.
Yeah, I’m fourth in line to the fucking throne now. I always was, but now everyone else knows it too.
“I get Mirth,” I whisper to myself, waiting like a good little boy for Greg to secure the entrances and exits, then open my door. “I get Mirth. I can handle all of this because it comes with Mirth.”
Rian Callaghan is leaningagainst an aged wooden door in a long, otherwise empty corridor. The lower level of the building, as well as the stairwell, was thronged with students dashing between morning classes, so the empty upper hall is a welcome relief.
Mixed-race, the wolf shifter is a ridiculously pretty, green-eyed boy on the verge of becoming a stupidly gorgeous male specimen. I had noted it offhandedly when I briefly met him outside the Lake Thun stables. But it’s understanding his connection to Mirth — and by extension, his connection to me — that makes me look closer, see more, now.
Not that I can’t handle the competition. I never did give a shit about my own looks, and they never attracted anything of value for me anyway. Mirth loves me despite the way I look. She never was big on drawing attention, and that’s all my face does.
I already know that Rian doesn’t swing my way, not even a little. Not that I’m particularly attracted to him. My main concern — especially because I’m certain that Mirth, who so easily accepts people at face value, didn’t pick this up from our last joint conversation — is that I’m not sure Rian’s going to be great at sharing either.
That’s a complication. Because Mirth needs him. Therefore, the fledgling Savoy bond group needs him.
Oddly, though— because it’s unusual for me to attempt to juggle multiple complications at once— none of that is actually why I’ve abandoned Eli’s shopping list and hopped on a plane to Dublin.
Dressed in worn jeans, not-so-worn work boots, and a white T-shirt under his black sweater, Rian looks up as I approach. Arms crossed protectively across his chest, he clearly hopes I’m someone else but already knows I’m not. An old black leather backpack, barely half full, slumps against the wall at his feet.
“It’s rare that people frown at the first sight of me,” I say like a complete asshole, smoothing a hand and a touch of my essence down my dark-navy suit jacket. I count the buttons — thankfully just in my head — before I can quash the impulse. Four. Only the top button done up.
“Sully.” Rian offers me a conciliatory smile, straightening away from the door. His Irish lilt is more pronounced than it had been over the phone or at Lake Thun, maybe from being back in Ireland.
I’m pleased he doesn’t give a shit about titles, though his gaze flicks to Greg hovering at the entrance to the corridor behind me, and a bit of his frown returns.
“Mirth insisted,” I say. “Though she thought I was going to be wandering around London all day, yammering on about being Lord Savoy and buying expensive shit. Either way, she decided that poor Greg here should keep me safe.”
Rian raises an eyebrow. “What expensive shit?”
I shrug. “Like a house. And art to put in it. How many houses do we need in London?”
“We?” Rian asks, just a little edged.
I grin at him, just a little snarky myself. Because he should know that I’m cool to let him fuck around, feign ignorance, oravoid shit, but only until it bores or bothers me. He’ll have a difficult time outplaying me anyway, if I’m in the mood. To make that clear, I deliberately glance at the name plaquebeside the door he’s been holding up —Professor Trina Callaghan.
He’s staked out his psychologist mother’s campus office.
“Is she in class or dodging you?”
“Both,” he huffs. “Maybe.”
“Let’s grab a coffee or whatever while we wait.”
“Whilewewait?”
“Yeah, we.”
Rian takes a deep breath, then finally drops his arms to his sides with a somewhat doubtful nod of agreement.
I get that the situation is overwhelming. So reminding myself I’m here for a reason, I drop my selfish-prick mask, stepping just close enough to grasp the top of his shoulder.
I don’t touch easily. Not like this, but … I want to make this work.
I’m not certain what I bring to this bond group yet, other than mountainous piles of dirty money. And … Mirth doesn’t need my money. Bolan doesn’t give a fuck about assets or other such shit. Depending on how the earl’s assets are tied up, Eli probably could have bailed Christoph out himself, so the duke didn’t have to sell land to maintain his inherited estate. Or start his winery.
But I still don’t want to just be an unlimited bank account to everyone but Mirth.
Rian looks me steadily in the eye — he’s about ten centimeters taller — then grasps the side of my shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For coming. I know you’d rather be with Mirth.”
