Glorious Rivals (The Grandest Game, #2) (76)

“Emily,” Lyra said. Grayson could practically see her reaching for the memory cued by that name.

“You read the article.” Grayson did not specify which article. Alisa had done a good job shutting down the story, but even the best fixer could only contain so much.

“I can’t picture her,” Lyra said, her expression intent. “But…”

“She looked very much like Eve.” Grayson was usually better at being circumspect than this. “There is some relation there.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lyra asked.

“I am philosophically and morally opposed to talking or thinking about Eve.” Grayson set his jaw.

Lyra was silent for a long moment. “Are you going to be okay?”

In his lifetime, Grayson had been asked that question so infrequently, if at all. He’d cultivated an image of invulnerability. Okay was not a thing to which Hawthornes aspired—especially him.

He swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Lyra replied.

He was the one who’d told her that she didn’t have to be fine. He’d told her that the cost of being fine when you weren’t was too high.

“Maybe some of us,” Lyra told him, “need to break to be whole.”

Some of us. Grayson let himself look at her—not just a glance this time. He drank in the lines of her face, the steadiness of her amber eyes, golden in the sun. “You understand,” he said quietly, “why I am forever pulling you back from cliffs.”

Grayson knew, though she did not, that he was not just speaking of cliffs. Alice. The lily. Omega and three. The snake on the stone staircase was not the only one in her path. And he could not tell her.

Physically—he could not.

“I understand,” Lyra said.

You would not, if you knew. Grayson pulled his eyes away from hers as they came around a bend, and the universe gifted him with a perfect distraction—for himself and for her. At the base of the cliff upon which the first mansion on Hawthorne Island had been built, there was an opening. A tangle of vines hung down from the surrounding rocks, nearly obscuring it, but Grayson’s gaze locked in on that opening with laser-like precision.

A cavern. He drew his hand slowly back from Lyra’s until only the tips of their fingers were touching. Her fingers curved reflexively inward, catching his as Grayson led her onward to that vine-covered opening. He stepped through the vines. The cavern beyond was small—less than a foot taller than his own head, no deeper than eight or twelve feet. Strings of delicate lights hung just beyond vines. And beyond that…

Lyra pushed past him, never one to be held back for long. She ducked under the lights, her brow furrowing as she took in the only object in the cavern. “A bed?”

“A bed that, given its pristine state and the ebb and flow of the tide, was almost certainly placed here while we were on the yacht.” Grayson examined it: an antique; wrought iron. The mattress had been made up—blanket, pillows, and all.

A bed—or a hint? The moment he saw it, Grayson began to laugh—despite himself, despite everything. “Often,” he said out loud. “Never. Little late. You… And two… Too much, too great.” The poem struck him as very likely being Avery’s doing, but the bed? That had Jameson written all over it. “Never, ever. I trap you not. Go now… How… To shoot your shot.”

“You know something,” Lyra accused. “You just solved it.”

“I might have.”

“Then tell me, asshole.” Lyra smiled slightly as she ran a hand lightly over the wrought iron of the bed. “And not in riddles this time.”

“Oh, but you see, it’s not a riddle, sweetheart.” Grayson walked to the opposite side of the bed, enjoying himself a bit more than he should have. Lyra’s amber eyes caught on his, and Grayson continued, “It’s a code. A very simple code.”





Chapter 65





ROHAN


Rohan returned to the tree to find Savannah at its base. She said nothing about whatever words had been exchanged between herself and Grayson, and in return, Rohan said not one word about the latest invisible message he’d revealed on the back of yet another identical photograph of Calla Thorp.

One of three. It’s time. The words echoed through Rohan’s mind, their meaning tantalizingly unclear. The latter sentence, at least, was a sentiment that Rohan shared.

It was past time. Time to go for my blood, Savannah Grayson. Physically, metaphorically—dealer’s choice.

“Your brother knows you’re up to something.” Rohan doubted she’d even need this final push, given the circumstances, but he gave it nonetheless. “And what he knows, the game makers assuredly will as well. Rather inconvenient for you that they equipped our watches for contact.”

Savannah did not respond to what he’d just said, did not even correct him with half brother. Instead, she proceeded as if Rohan had said nothing at all. “What do you make of the words on the plaque?”

Through her white armor, every line of her body was visible to Rohan’s discerning eyes. No tells, this time.

Nothing but focus.

Nothing but her.

Rohan refused the gauntlet she’d just thrown down. “So your plan remains unaltered? Play the game to win, hope that certain precautions aren’t already being taken in case you do?”