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 withwins 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. Andyou 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.
