CHAPTER 60 ROHAN
ROHAN
R ohan noted the exact moment that Grayson and Savannah made it back down to the uppermost climbing holds—and the exact moment that Savannah reversed course once more. Rohan’s mind made quick work of that, and he turned his attention to Lyra Kane—not exactly an open book.
Fortunately, Rohan excelled at cracking open even the hardest shells. “You know, don’t you?” he said. This time, Rohan wasn’t referring to Jameson Hawthorne, wasn’t even trying to manipulate her—much. He raised his eyes to Grayson and Savannah overhead. “So does he.”
They knew Savannah’s intentions in this game were less than pure. Grayson almost certainly knew why. And Lyra…
Rohan studied her—openly, nakedly, letting her feel his gaze.
“You have a tell,” he informed her. Rohan gave those words just a moment to sink in.
A person could inadvertently show you quite a bit in the split second when they realized their face had already given away far too much.
“It’s all about the direction of the eyes,” Rohan continued. “Where they go—and where they don’t.”
Hers went down. Rohan knelt, and before his knee had even reached the forest floor, Lyra was already there, crouched, her telltale grace exceeding even his own.
“A forest is more than its trees,” Rohan noted as he pushed his fingers into the grass. “This forest, for instance, is dirt and rocks and wild grass—and this .”
There was something there, hidden just below the dirt, barely covered.
In a single sweeping motion, Rohan cleared away enough soil for them to make out the top of a silver plaque—and the first two words.
Often… And right below it. Never.
Without a word to him, Lyra Kane began to dig out the plaque, utterly indifferent to the dirt lodging itself beneath her nails—and utterly indifferent to Rohan, or doing a good impression of it, at least.
“It really is a shame,” Rohan told her, never above issuing another little mental push, “that the Hawthorne family sees you less as a person—a highly capable one, by my reckoning—than as a threat .”
Lyra didn’t so much as lift her eyes from her work, and Rohan took it upon himself to aid her in clearing away the rest of the dirt. Words stared up at the two of them—another riddle.
OFTEN
NEVER
LITTLE LATE
YOU
AND TWO
TOO MUCH, TOO GREAT
NEVER, EVER
I TRAP YOU NOT
GO NOW
HOW
TO SHOOT YOUR SHOT
“A clue,” Rohan noted. “But still no ledger.” He lifted his gaze back up to the tree to see Grayson Hawthorne rapidly approaching.
Lyra noticed the same and stood, and while she was distracted, Rohan slid his fingers around the side of the plaque, clearing dirt as he went.
With the plaque free and clear, he tried subtly prying it from the ground.
Firmly affixed, for now at least. Rohan skimmed his fingers around the outside of the metal and was rewarded when he hit a gap—a very tiny one.
Circular. A hole, a fraction of a centimeter in diameter. Rohan stood without letting on that he’d found anything at all, just as Grayson Hawthorne hit the ground.
“Savannah is not coming down until I’m gone,” Grayson told Lyra.
Rohan felt something pass between the two of them as Grayson crouched to assess the plaque.
Rohan could see how this would play out.
Grayson would soon use his watch to inform the game makers of Savannah’s intentions, if he had not already.
Being intelligent individuals themselves, Avery Grambs and Jameson Hawthorne would almost certainly take precautions surrounding the announcement of this year’s winner, in case Savannah prevailed and won the game.
With her original plan thwarted, the Savannah Grayson that Rohan knew would nonetheless find a way to get what she wanted. Rohan thought back to exactly what Brady Daniels had offered her. A body. Proof.
Logic dictated that Savannah didn’t need to win this game anymore. All she needed to do was take Rohan out.
Sidelining that thought, Rohan tracked Grayson’s movements as the Hawthorne stood, having thoroughly studied the surface of its plaque— but not , Rohan noted with some satisfaction, the sides . Not that tiny hole.
So tiny, in fact , Rohan thought, the words little more than a whisper in his mind, that it is barely any larger than the tip of a dart .
A golden dart. Rohan knew without reaching for his pockets that he’d neglected to bring his—a result of changing clothes, a result of the fact that he’d believed the dart had already served its purpose in this game as the clue that had started them off.
Admit it. That voice was the Proprietor’s. You’ve lost your focus. She’s stolen it from you, and you have allowed it.
Rohan thought for a single moment of that not-light, not-teasing cliffside kiss, devoid of inhibitions—and mercy.
He’d known, as he’d kissed Savannah Grayson, that she would betray him.
And thanks to Grayson and his newfound knowledge, Brady’s offer to Savannah had just gone from tempting to unrefusable.
Rohan played out the scenario in his mind, in all its glorious variations. Grayson and Lyra would leave to ponder the words on the plaque. Savannah would descend and read it herself. And if Rohan left her alone… well, Brady Daniels was probably around here somewhere.
Watching.
Waiting.
Savannah would take his offer now, if she hadn’t already. All Rohan had to do was go to retrieve his dart and let it happen.