CHAPTER 66 ROHAN
ROHAN
The money hadn’t taken three days to clear. It had barely taken any time at all. Rohan had what he needed. He just didn’t—and wouldn’t ever again—have Savannah Grayson.
I hope you’re happy, Rohan. I hope that throne of yours is everything you dreamed it would be. And I sure as hell hope you know better than to ever dream of me.
Rohan did know better. He had from the beginning.
And now, Savannah had saved him the trouble of good-bye.
He knew her unexpected benevolence could have been a ruse, an exquisite, vengeful trick both diabolical and divine, aimed at making him step foot in London prematurely, thereby forfeiting his prize.
Such a move would have suited Savannah Grayson. Vicious, winter girl.
But somehow, Rohan knew that this was no trick. There was no game here. Savannah had kept her word and then some to advance him the winnings she’d promised. Even in the end—and this was the end—Savannah had not betrayed him.
My terms, Rohan could hear her saying, back in the Grandest Game. No one else’s.
He didn’t even want to know how Savannah had managed to convince her mother to release her trust fund, or how her mother had convinced the lawyers, or what mountains had been moved to make it happen so quickly.
All that mattered was that Savannah had moved mountains, and she’d done it so that she could end this. End us. Savannah had parted with a fortune to be done with him. Forever.
Rohan had never believed in another person before, but it was startlingly simple to believe in all the ways Savannah Grayson hated him now.
All the ways she always would.
The backstreets of London hadn’t changed, and neither had this particular pub or its owner, who visibly paled when he saw Rohan approach the bar. The man had doubtlessly been instructed to make a call if and when he ever saw Rohan again.
Found yourself between a rock and a hard place, have you, old friend?
Of course, Rohan had never really had friends. He winked and put the poor sod out of his misery. “Tell you what, mate, get me a drink and go ahead and make that call.”
After Rohan finished his drink, he did everyone involved the courtesy of waiting outside, since this could get messy. Rohan was rather hoping that it would.
Judgment came in the form of a boy who moved like shadow itself and carried seven knives, all of them concealed very well—just not quite well enough to hide them from Rohan.
“You look good, Kier.” Rohan used the lad’s given name, the only one Kier had. Rohan, on the other hand, had very recently acquired a surname, one that Savannah had given him for that paperwork, along with matching identification she’d obtained who knows where.
She’d listed him as Rohan Nihil.
Nihil looked like a proper surname. Maybe it even was in some parts of the world, but Rohan knew exactly why Savannah had chosen it. Nihil was Latin for “nothing.” And that was what Rohan was to Savannah Grayson now.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Kier’s voice had deepened since Rohan had seen the boy last—not that Kier had ever really been a child. He had a page in the Mercy’s staff ledger, same as Rohan, same as every child who grew up in the halls of the Devil’s Mercy.
Horrible secrets in purple ink.
“I am exactly where I ought to be,” Rohan replied.
Kier lunged, and Rohan intercepted knives one and two with only half as much ease as anticipated. The boy really had grown.
“This is my city, Kier.” Rohan tossed both knives to the ground, where they clattered on the pavement. “Or it will be, once you deliver a message for me.”