CHAPTER 65 ROHAN
ROHAN
R ohan 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?”
“My plan,” Savannah said, meeting his eyes with those winter-frost ones of hers, “is not now nor has it ever been any of your concern. The plaque, British.”
“There’s a hole in the side.” Rohan purposefully armed her with that information. “Roughly the size of the tip of a golden dart. Mine seems to have gone missing.”
All she would have to do to seize the advantage was pretend that she did not have hers, either. Distract him. Send him on a wild-goose chase. And Rohan would, in return, pretend that the white fabric that had melded itself to her form did not give away exactly which pocket held her dart.
“How very careless of you,” Savannah said. “Fortunately, I am never careless.” She withdrew her dart.
As far as pretenders went, she was flawless.
She crouched, running her hand around the side of the plaque until she found the hole he’d spoken of. Rohan let his fingers join hers, skin against skin, right before she hit the spot in question. And there it was— a tiny hole, a hitch of her breath .
Savannah pushed his hand aside just far enough to thrust the tip of the golden dart into the hole—a perfect fit.
But nothing happened.
“May I?” Rohan asked, fully anticipating her response: You may not.
Savannah Grayson, however, had the absolute audacity to give the dart to him, placing it in his hand just a bit harder than necessary but giving it to him all the same.
No matter how many openings Rohan gave her, she was apparently set on doing this to her own specifications—betraying him in her time, in her way.
Rohan stood, forcing himself to keep right on looking at the way that she looked clad in white as he set his mind to devising a distraction that would allow him to keep her dart.
“What now?” Savannah said, and he heard the familiar intensity in her tone—not weak in the least.
What now, Rohan? the Proprietor asked in his mind.
Rohan slipped the dart up his sleeve as he turned. “Follow me.”