Her free hand falls to the back of the chair as her gaze sweeps from Greg to Rian, then finally to me. She’s carrying an extra-large cappuccino in her other hand and a black leather satchel on her hip, under her open jacket, presumably to keep it out of the rain.
I stretch back in my chair, smirking at the mother of one of my bond mates. Rian might be all about staying calm in all situations — and yeah, I can feel a bit of that attempting to rub off on me — but I’m a fucking asshole when I want to be. Trina Callaghan is on my naughty list. And not in a good way.
Greg— also a huge, unhelpful asshole— undermines me completely by saying, “Your guard has sourced a private plane for you, Lord Savoy. It is at your disposal.”
I can practically hear the capital letters in my title. “No need to piss on me, Gregory,” I say. “Ms. Callaghan isn’t a threat.”
He huffs in that cat shifter way. Then, completely unprofessionally, he side-eyes Trina a moment too long before withdrawing back to his watchful post.
I look at Rian, raising one eyebrow because I’m aware that Trina is still absorbing the info Greg just dumped on her, and I have to maintain my facade. “The royal guard must be all abuzz about you. Seems the protective mode isn’t just for me. Or Mirth.”
It makes sense. Rian’s father, Bolan and Livi’s father, would still be revered among the royal guard. For giving his life to save Armin and his mother. I didn’t even need to be all that dialed in to know that. There is absolutely no way, no matter how professional they may strive to be, that Roz and Greg haven’t overheard and then shared the revelation about Rian’s parentage, at least with each other. But I’d be surprised if there wasn’t an actual memo going around.
Rian simply nods, his gaze mostly on his mother. Trina seems frozen in place, still gripping the back of the chair with one hand.
So, proper gentleman that I am — and also, annoyingly, the highest ranked among us now that fucking Greg has outed me — I slide my chair back just enough to partly stand, smooth a hand down my suit jacket to keep it from flapping forward unbecomingly, and gesture toward the still-empty seat. “Please join us, Ms. Callaghan.”
Trina blinks at me, then finally offers a slight dip of her chin instead of the more formal curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”
The chin dip is fine because technically I haven’t filed all the paperwork and formally accepted my position as lord of the House of Savoy. It hasn’t occurred to me before, but I’m now hyperaware that upon doing all of that, then formally bonding with Mirth, I might actually be His Royal Highness, the Duke of Savoy.
That thought makes me feel slightly ill. Enough so that, even though I manage to find my seat, I lose a bit of time obsessing about it in my head.
In the interim, Trina has removed her coat, sat down, and taken a couple of sips of her cappuccino in silence.
Am I supposed to be the one to speak again? Rian wouldn’t hold me to that formality in the presence of his mother, would he?
I flick my gaze from Trina’s hands, still wrapped around her large ceramic mug, to Rian questioningly.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, gazing steadily — and still so calmly — at his mother.
So I’m not expected — by him at least — to advance the conversation. And Rian has already indicated he wants me to stay.
The cafe is filled with murmured conversation and the sounds of hot drinks being brewed and frothed, but silence stretches taut over the table. If I didn’t know better, which of course I do, I would have thought it was some essence spell stifling us all.
I’m literally seconds away from squirming to dispel the hold that silence has on me— or blurting out something completely inappropriate— when Rian finally breaks it.
“You can’t even look at me?” he asks softly.
Relief floods through me, freeing my lungs. I’m aware that only a minute has passed, but again, my meds aren’t beingterribly helpful today. Though oddly, I’ve been highly functional and fairly focused with Rian.
Like I am with Mirth.
Trina visibly braces herself as she steadily meets her son’s eyes. She lifts her coffee as if to take a sip, but then angles her gaze toward me. Pointedly.
Rian snorts quietly. “Salvatore, this is my mother, Trina. Mother, this is Salvatore. He’s … my bond mate.”
I don’t like the momentary hesitation in Rian’s introduction, but I understand that he thinks those particulars are for him and Mirth to work out. “Pleased to meet you, Rian’s mom,” I drawl.
Trina doesn’t quite look at me, still waiting, stiff in her seat, for further explanation from Rian. As if it isn’t her who owes him information.
It occurs to me that this might be some sort of typical parental interaction. Maybe Trina is trying to exert her authority over her son? To get the upper hand in the conversation?
Having never had parents, not that I can really remember, I have no frame of reference.
Rian just waits.
Which is crazy, because after only a few more seconds, I’m ready to blurt out anything just to get the conversation moving forward to where everyone can apologize and we can go back to Mirth whole and happy.
