Always and forever.
5
SALVATORE
The rainy,cobbled streets of Dublin speed past beyond the fog-edged windows of the armored vehicle masquerading as an SUV that was waiting for us at the airport. Bulletproof glass is raised between the back seat and the driver. Greg, the royal guard cat shifter now begrudgingly dogging my every step, essentially interrogated the local royal guard recruit about his background and qualifications before settling in with me.
I’ve cracked the window despite the rain, itching to lower it even further for the fresh air. The commercial flight to Dublin was utter chaos for my senses. I already didn’t want to leave Mirth. I understand why she needs to work through her grief, as much as doing so is even possible, but I still want to be forever at her side.
I’ve been doing a lot of things I don’t necessarily want to do, just in the last forty-eight hours alone. Such as giving Bolan a heads-up that Mirth was heading out to his family property. So maybe that’s all just a shock to my bratty, self-centered system.But my meds aren’t helping, and I can’t smoke one of my joints in public.
And yes, I tried to book a private flight. I barely managed to secure two seats in what passed for first class on the pond hopper between London and Dublin. Fucking Greg insisted on not only sitting together, so I couldn’t book a row to myself, but also taking the aisle seat. For security reasons.
I’m already sick of that phrase —for security reasons— which I’ve heard a half-dozen times in the last day. But according to Mirth, I can’t just ‘gad about town’ if I’m also going to accept my title. Hence the security detail.
I suppose it’s my fault for not actually outright owning a fucking plane. But I don’t really want to own anything. As soon as I had a chance to liquidate everything my father had accumulated, I had done so.
Greg, stuffed into the seat to my left, angles the screen of his phone. I read the headline —Lord Savoy Uncovered!— and don’t bother scanning anything else.
“Eli is going to be pissed,” I murmur, looking out the window again as we pass through a Georgian-era-inspired section of the city. “He wanted to control the narrative. And the timing.”
“He’ll get used to it.” As the car slows to a stop at a light, Greg’s energy gathers tightly around him for a moment. Then he does that thing where he checks the immediate area — in this case, beyond the vehicle — for any threats without moving from his seat, barely moving his head, and without making it at all obvious that’s what he’s doing.
“Where are they now?” I ask, even though I’m certain the shifter is sick of me nagging him, and not at all accustomed to my habit of rapidly changing the subject.
“Safe,” he says. The first few times I asked, he gave me more details about Mirth and Roz and showed me the last text message he received from his fellow royal guard. But he quicklyfigured out that too many details aren’t what I need to feel settled. Well, as settled as I can be when completely out of my comfort zone with my meds failing.
At the very least, my meds aren’t doing what I want them to do right now, which is focus me without smothering all my senses. Instead, I keep getting jolts to my system — including vicious, stabbing-pain headaches — even as everything feels all muffled in wool batting. It’s a fucked-up combo.
“We don’t know each other very well,” I say.
“I know my duty, Lord Savoy,” Greg says stiffly.
That’s not what I meant at all. “You were on Armin’s detail.”
Greg’s shoulders tighten, and he nods stiffly. Not looking at me. But then, when paired one-on-one like this, a royal guard usually watches everything but the person they’re guarding.
“You weren’t with him. On the ski trip,” I say, not certain if I’m prying or trying to make him feel better about losing Armin.
“No.” He clears his throat, glances at me quickly, then looks away. I wonder if the driver can feel Greg’s gaze drilling into the back of his head through the bulletproof glass. Or if the pilots felt it all the way into the cockpit, which Greg made certain he had in his line of sight during the flight.
“Can you fly?”
“It’s a requirement. At this level, at least.”
I laugh quietly to myself. Of course he can fly a plane, even though all the Royal Highnesses have their own planes and crew. Unfortunately, Mirth’s plane wasn’t in London. Plus, if I took off in it, then she would have known I wasn’t dutifully checking things off the stupid list that Eli keeps updating.
Every time I glance at my phone, there’s another fucking thing he wants me to buy. The last text was about some art installation that needs a donation or a fucking patron or fuck knows. I barely looked at it. Plus I’m getting dozens of other text messages and emails from people I barely know— and I have noidea how they got my contact info— all of them piling up on my notification screen.
“Do you know how to make it so only the text messages I want come through?” I ask, even though I fucking loathe asking anyone I don’t know well for help. “Like, as a priority? It’s … it’s not helpful right now.”
Greg doesn’t even blink at the request. “One of the royal guard tech mages can completely reorganize your phone and add extra security measures at the same time.”
“Remotely? Like, right now?”
He nods. “Just need to give them access.”
I unlock my phone, then eagerly drop it into his open palm. It was starting to feel like an explosive device in my hand. “Just Mirth, please. Bolan, Christoph, and Elias. I … I don’t have Rian’s number yet.”
