It takes me a moment, but the muted sounds of Mirth’s cries of pleasure eventually filter through the thick wooden door. I flush. My cock instantly hardens, compressing almost uncomfortably against the zipper of my pants.
Sully smirks at me. “Wait until she comes. I hope you have another suit on hand.”
I blink at him, phone forgotten in my hand. “The bond?”
He laughs, letting his head fall back. “Yeah, the bond is pretty hard to resist. Though why would you want to?”
8
MIRTH
I should pullthe blinds against the dark night sky. Bolan has crashed out on the floor next to my living room couch like the degenerate rock star he is. But it’s exhaustion, not drugs or alcohol, that’s caught up with him. Sully is curled up next to me on the couch, also asleep, and making it difficult for me to reach my phone. Mostly because I don’t want to acknowledge more of my day … evening … night … both the overwhelmingly good and the achingly bad.
But three text messages in a row flashing up on my screen are hard to ignore, especially when only a limited few of my contacts are tagged to send notifications through.
I’m both hoping it’s Rian and worried what he’s going to say. I don’t know anything yet about what happened between him and Sully, except that I’ve never seen Sully take his anger — his hurting? — out on anyone it wasn’t primarily directed at. Though that could be because there are few people who wield that sort of power over the fabricator mage. He doesn’t let many people that far into his life.
The same could be said for every one of the current occupants of the apartment.
The apartments.
After lunch in Zurich, Sully dragged Elias to London with us. Multiple laptops, devices, contracts, and all. Hence the need for more bedrooms. Unceremoniously flinging open the doors to Armin’s side of the building, Sully had wandered into my brother’s space as if he had no idea I hadn’t opened those doors in seven months.
He did know, of course. And that was how he dealt with it.
I attempt to slide out from under Sully’s sleep-heavy arm. He shifts in his slumber in protest, and I freeze in place. When he doesn’t wake, I reach out for my phone and snag it off the coffee table with my fingertips.
The screen lights up at my touch. The earlier text messages are from Anne checking up on me, but the last text is from Greg. Not Rian.
I frown. I know the royal guard are scrambling to expand my protection. Roz wants Greg back with me, and other guards specifically assigned to Sully, but she’s extremely picky about whom she’s even willing to interview.
>When was the last time you heard from Thomas Walsh?
Flummoxed by the question, I open my messages. Ignoring that my last text to Rian has gone unread at the top of the list, I open the thread right below containing Kitty’s pictures and texts from earlier in the day. From those messages, I now know all about Tommy’s little sister’s favorite breakfast — oatmeal with brown sugar and cinnamon. Her least favorite class — gym. And what she’s drawing during her afternoon art class. She also sent a short and very shaky video of Tommy racing around a football field. If he was doing anything of significance at the time, I couldn’t tell. But I was later informed that their school wonthe game. And there was sprinkle cake with white frosting to celebrate. Not Kitty’s favorite.
I check the time on the picture of the cake: 4:45 p.m. We were still in the air between Zurich and London when it came in. I text Greg back.
It’s mostly Kitty who checks in. Last photo she sent was taken around 4:45 p.m. Or at least that’s when she sent it.
Greg replies almost instantly.
>Would you forward it to me?
I do.
Is everything okay?
Staring down at my screen for an answer, I carefully slide around Sully so as not to wake him, then get up off the couch. After stepping over Bolan, I pause to pick his Martin guitar up off the floor and place it on the credenza behind the couch.
>Just on the phone with tech right now.
Picking up the lit peaches-and-cream candle that Christoph sent me from the side table, I cross through the living room and kitchen, ignoring the complete mess from dinner scattered across the countertops. I send a text to Tommy’s phone — so to Kitty — even though it’s way past her bedtime.
I’m in the hall that bisects the two upper halves of the apartment building, ready to head down the stairs to the royal guard quarters and talk to Greg face-to-face when I look up, momentarily startled. Because not only is there a light on in Armin’s apartment, hanging low over the large, rough-hewn trestle dining table on the far side of the space. But through the still-open main doors, I can see someone moving around, deep within the shadows of the darkened kitchen.
And for just a breath, I think it’s Armin.
I nearly lose hold of my phone. I must make a noise. Because Elias’s head snaps up, and all the low light around me dims evenfurther under a sharp tug of his essence. The candle in my hand almost gutters.
