CHAPTER 44 LYRA
LYRA
L yra tried to be methodical about the way she searched the yacht, but it was a yacht . Maybe some people were wired for yacht parties and moonlit masquerades, but to Lyra, it was like having fallen into Wonderland.
Poker chips made out of meteorites.
A ship so massive it had its own movie theater.
Bars—plural—stocked with ornate bottles, most of which looked like they cost at least as much as Lyra’s diamond-studded mask.
The opulence of it all made Lyra wonder what Grayson would think if she took him to Mile’s End. She wondered if he knew how to climb trees, wondered if Grayson Hawthorne had ever skinned his knees or tracked mud across a carpet.
She wondered what oh-so-proper Grayson would look like muddy.
Pushing open another door, Lyra found herself surrounded. It took her a moment to realize that the walls, ceiling, and floor were all completely lined with mirrors. There was nothing else in the room—just the mirrors.
Stepping across the threshold and allowing the door to close behind her, Lyra turned, taking in the three-hundred-sixty-degree view.
As she spun, the chiffon fabric of her gown fanned out, the dark rainbow of colors on full display.
Darkest Sunset. The mask on Lyra’s face sparkled, her lips and her jawline the only features on her face not even partially obscured.
She was still wearing Grayson’s jacket.
Look with your fingers , Lyra told herself, not with your eyes . She walked to the edge of the room, then began making her way around its perimeter, her fingers trailing the mirrored wall so lightly they left no marks.
Before she even made it to the first seam in the glass, a section of the wall across from her swung inward like a door, and Rohan stepped through. In contrast to the white jacket around Lyra’s shoulders, the tuxedo that Rohan wore was a deep, rich purple.
“It’s a rented yacht,” he declared, his accent downright aristocratic. “But they managed to find one with a few hidden doors. How very Hawthorne of them.”
“What makes you so sure the yacht is rented?” Lyra replied.
“I could tell you, but…” Rohan trailed off and crossed the diagonal, putting his hand flat on another mirrored section of the wall. “I don’t want to,” he finished, and then he pushed, revealing yet another hidden door.
Almost immediately, the room was hit with a visible blast of heat. Steam.
“Looks like I found the steam room,” Rohan announced. Eyeing Grayson’s jacket on Lyra’s shoulders, Rohan shrugged off his own tuxedo jacket. “Mind if I take off my shirt, too?” He didn’t bother with the buttons, just pulled it off over his head, exposing his abs.
Lyra rolled her eyes. “I was just leaving.”
“You could,” Rohan agreed, dropping his hold on the mirrored door, allowing it to swing shut and disappear into the wall once more, locking away the steam. “Or you could stay and ask me what I know.”
Something about the set of her opponent’s knife-sharp features and the look in Rohan’s fathomless brown eyes made Lyra think that he really did know something.
“Ask you what you know,” she repeated flatly, “about the game?”
Rohan flashed her a smile. “Depends on your definition of the game .”
Lyra crossed her arms over her torso, utterly immune to his nonsense—and his bare chest. “What do you know?”
Rohan’s gaze settled onto hers, and there was a subtle shift in his features, pretensions falling away like writing wiped from sand. “Jameson Hawthorne wants you out of the Grandest Game. He tasked me with finding something that would let him disqualify you.”
Lyra wanted to believe that this was just Rohan playing more mind games with the competition, but she couldn’t help thinking about the way that Jameson had looked down at her from the railing earlier. That Jameson had been a far cry from the one who’d welcomed her to the game.
“And why would Jameson Hawthorne do that?” Lyra replied, channeling Grayson in her tone—all control, no tells.
Rohan gave an elegant little shrug. “I was rather hoping you could tell me.”
Lyra studied Rohan—the size of his pupils, the tilt of his lips—and Brady’s assessment from the bonfire came back to her. “Divide and conquer,” Lyra said. “An expected strategy.”
Rohan flashed her another smile. “Is it working?”
“Are you lying?” Lyra mimicked his tone, if not his smile.
“I am not.” Rohan held her gaze a moment longer, then turned his attention back toward the mirrored door. “The steam room calls.”
This time, Lyra really did leave. She had a hint to find—even if Jameson Hawthorne really did want her gone.