Glorious Rivals(10)

Lyra just stood there blinking for a moment. What the hell was that?

“I’d watch out for Savannah, if I were you.”

Lyra turned toward the owner of that voice—Brady. His locs were tied back, and his thick-rimmed glasses might have made him look unassuming had it not been for the way his armor accented his strong, muscular build.

“It’s a competition,” Lyra replied. “Pretty sure that means I should be watching out for everyone.” Fun and games aside—bonfires and chicken fights and sunsets aside—they were all here to win. She cut to the chase. “I’m Lyra. You’re Brady. We haven’t technically met.”

“Lyra.” Brady said her name wrong, the way Lyra’s stranger of a father had during their one and only meeting. Lie-ra. “It’s a constellation, you know.” Brady studied her like he was reading some kind of esoteric book. “The constellation Lyra contains one of the brightest stars ever visible to those of us on Earth—southern hemisphere, northern sky.”

Southern hemisphere. Lyra knew next to nothing about her biological father, but she knew he’d claimed whatever heritage suited him, many of them South American.

“My name is Lyra,” she told Brady flatly. Leer-a.

“It’s possible I know too much about constellations,” Brady admitted. He inclined his head toward the night sky, and Lyra found herself doing the same. “I know a lot about a lot of things,” he continued. “I could be a useful ally to you in phase two.”

“Careful with that one, Ms. Kane.” Rohan appeared out of nowhere. “He left Gigi Grayson bleeding on the rocks. Anything in the name of the win, isn’t that right, Mr. Daniels?”

“Divide and conquer.” Brady met Rohan’s gaze. “An expected strategy.” With one last glance at Lyra, he made his way to the other side of the fire.

Lyra preempted Rohan before he could even try to get inside her head: “Don’t.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” Rohan had a charmer’s smile. “You might ask yourself, though: Where is your Mr. Hawthorne?”

Chapter 9

GRAYSON

Follow the Leader, the way Grayson and his brothers had played it growing up, had led—no pun intended—to numerous concussions and two-and-a-half broken arms. But when Jameson had issued the challenge—in the form of a flying tackle, followed by the requisite hand signal—Grayson had accepted.

He’d followed Jameson all the way up the vertical wall of the cliff, out of sight of those below, well aware that his brother was up to something. Grayson knew Jameson—better, perhaps, than he knew anyone else in the world. They’d been born three hundred and sixty-four days apart, one day short of a year. For the entirety of their childhoods, they’d been formed in contrast to each other, in competition with each other.

Jameson was a master of the Hail Mary pass, a sensation seeker, a risk-taker. The more Grayson had pushed himself to be what their grandfather wanted him to be, to be perfect, the more risks his brother had been forced to take, and the better Jameson had gotten at choosing his risks, the more formidable Grayson had been forced to become.

And somehow, despite it all, theirs was a rivalry that ran only half as deep as their bond. It was that connection that told Grayson, long before they finished the climb and Jameson took up position on the very edge of the cliff they’d just scaled, that something was wrong.

When it came to his family, Grayson took no risks. “Speak.”

“I love it when you give me orders, Gray. It makes me feel so seen and loved. An order’s the next best thing to a snuggle, I always say.”

Grayson’s immunity to Jameson’s sarcasm was absolute. “Jamie? Speak.” Tell me what’s wrong.

“I’ll do you one better. On Spake.” Jameson issued the phrase like the trump card it was.

There was a set of rules that Grayson and his brothers had agreed to from the time they were children, traditions that none of them could break without significant penalty. On Spake—an anagram for no speak—was one. From the moment Jameson had invoked the phrase, Grayson could not say a word, not until Jameson called, at which point, it would be up to Grayson whether or not things would come to blows.

The question was why Jameson considered whatever he was about to say to be fighting words, worthy of invoking On Spake to begin with.

“Lyra Kane is a threat,” Jameson said, “whether you see it or not.”

That assertion could not stand. Only a lifetime of control kept Grayson from making that point out loud. Instead, he relied on his face to make it for him. Tread lightly, brother.

“I would tell you to stay away from her,” Jameson continued, “but I have eyes and rather remarkably no death wish at the moment, so instead, I will say this: Be sure that she’s worth it, Gray.” Jameson locked his eyes on to Grayson’s. “Make damn sure that she’s not Eve.”

The moment Jameson said the name Eve, Grayson unzipped his jacket, removed it.

“If you think I’m looking for a fight,” Jameson said, “you’re wrong.”

People find plenty of things they are not looking for, Jamie.

Jameson responded as if he’d spoken out loud. “I’m not done, Gray. You said something to Nash about our grandmother being alive. She’s not. Do you understand, Grayson? She is not.”