CHAPTER 73 ROHAN
ROHAN
Rohan might not have been in the most rational frame of mind when he was informed there were intruders—four of them, to be specific. Four on one. Rohan liked those odds and opted out of sending anyone to take care of the situation for him.
This he would do himself. He could do with a fight. Perhaps blood would taste better than sand in his mouth, and either way, it was a distraction.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Rohan called up the elevator shaft. Without an invitation and a key, Jameson and the other incoming Hawthornes had been forced to resort to a rather treacherous climb.
“Congrats on the promotion,” Jameson called back. He was leading the way—and coming in hot. How very typical.
“You won’t like what happens if you make it to the bottom,” Rohan said, knowing quite well that, for some people, a warning might as well have been a formal invitation.
You won’t enjoy this, Jameson—but I might. Rohan needed to hit something. Someone. He needed to be hit.
“You’re going to want to hear what we have to say.” Jameson was perhaps five seconds out now.
We. That grated in ways that Rohan did not understand. He’d never needed anyone. He had no family. He had no friends. He had no one and nothing but the Mercy, and that was all he’d ever needed.
But the Mercy was a lie.
As Jameson made it to the ground, the others followed only a few seconds behind.
Impressive arm strength, across the board, Rohan registered. The youngest brother, Xander, had the largest reach, but it was Grayson, with his pale hair and fair skin so very like Savannah’s, who would likely present the most immediate danger in a fight.
Either that, or the uncle.
Once all four of them were on solid ground, Rohan offered them a smile—a roguish smile, a charming one, a smile that every single one of them had to know portended absolutely nothing good.
“Savannah,” Grayson said, his voice cutting through the air like a well-balanced blade. “They have her.”
Four words, and the world stopped spinning on its axis.
Four words, and reality rearranged itself in an instant.
“The Gilded Blade.” Grayson pressed the point, staring Rohan down. “Gigi said no. Savannah—”
“Wants to be heard,” Rohan finished. “Savannah wants power and control.”
And Savannah, despite her protests to the contrary, did not want to be alone. And she does not want me—not anymore.
“That’s it?” Grayson replied. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I know many words,” Rohan told Grayson, willing the bastard to shift his weight just slightly, to even think about taking a swing. “Would you like to hear some?”
“Cut the bullshit, Rohan.” Jameson had apparently reached his limit.
“Jameson Hawthorne, you sweet talker, you.”
“It’s called the Crucible, and not everyone survives.
” Jameson took a single step forward, as if he had a vested interest in making sure Rohan hit him first. “They have Avery,” Jameson continued.
“They have Eve. And now they have Savannah, and none of them is guaranteed to come out of this thing alive.”
“Savannah will.” For Rohan, that response was automatic. Of course she will. Of course she can. Of course she must.
“You’re the Proprietor,” Jameson replied. “And that means you chose this place over her, so tell me: What frame of mind do you think Savannah is in right now?”
I didn’t choose this, Rohan thought. She chose. Her decision, not mine. But Rohan couldn’t help silently answering Jameson’s question, too. What frame of mind was Savannah in?
The frame of mind to give away a fortune out of spite. The frame of mind to say to hell with everyone in this world and very especially me.
The frame of mind to become someone—something—else.
“Say something,” Jameson ordered.
“What do you expect me to say?” Rohan replied. “Or do, for that matter?”
Green eyes locked on to his. “I don’t know.” Jameson phrased that like a warning/invitation of his own. “What can you do, Rohan?”
I’m the king. I can do whatever the hell I want, starting with taking care of four intruders however I please.
But for some reason, Rohan did not move. For some reason, he thought not of the order in which he would take them out but of Savannah in that dress, of the messages he’d inked onto skin and the word he hadn’t.
M-I-N-E.
“Would you like to hear a story?” Rohan knew this was reckless, but he was the Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy.
He held oh-so-many cards. All those ledgers.
All those boxes. “I said would you like to hear a story, Hawthornes? It’s the story of a bastard prince who grew up the ‘son’ of a rather violent duke in Regency England.
And it is also the story of a servant girl who grew up in the same castle alongside him and later met with a most tragic end—except, of course, she didn’t. ”
There was a single beat of silence.
“She ascended.” That was the uncle, looking rather worse for the wear.
“It’s a love story,” Rohan said, “that started with murder, took a stroll through blackmail and betrayal, and ended somehow with a sprinkle of redemption and the hatching of a glorious, Machiavellian plan. A plan that involved gambling, secrets, and an underground palace. It’s the story of that royal bastard, the underground throne he sat on, and the woman behind the throne. Or women, plural, I suppose.”
“The Mercy,” Jameson said. “And the Gilded Blade.”
“Some thrones, it seems,” Rohan murmured, “are also leashes.”
“How—”
Rohan cut Jameson off. “Does it matter how? Does any of it matter?”
Grayson strode right up to Rohan, leaving less than an inch between them. “They have Savannah.”
Rohan moved with death-defying speed and hit his target hard enough to feel the crunch of bone beneath his fist. Grayson went down but didn’t stay down, and when he got up, Rohan hit him in the face a second time.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Rohan said, preparing for the four-pronged attack that was surely coming any moment. “Appearances. As the bloke in charge, I have to beat at least one of you to a bloody pulp.” He looked at Grayson. “And you hurt Savannah. Badly.”
I do not, Rohan could hear Savannah saying, do anything badly.
“I would die for my sister,” Grayson said. “Without second thought, without hesitation, without regret. Would you?”
Rohan looked from Grayson, whose eye was well on its way to swelling shut, whose lip was split and then some, to the others, and not one of them had the decency to attack.
I would die for my sister. Grayson’s words wormed their way into Rohan’s veins, heading straight for his heart. Without second thought, without hesitation, without regret. Would you?
“I have everything I ever wanted,” Rohan said, his voice echoing through the cavern all around them. “And I don’t want it anymore.”
“Because it’s not what you thought it was?” Jameson said quietly.
Rohan stared him. “I don’t think I’d want it even if it was.”
“You’re in.” The uncle, once more.
“Who the hell are you again?” Rohan replied. What use will you be to me?
“You know who he is,” Xander said. “I’m pretty sure you know exactly how many times I’ve burned off my eyebrow and what my favorite flavor of scone is.”
“Which eyebrow?” Rohan quipped, turning and striding toward the emerald path—back toward the Mercy. “And American scones are an offense against God and man.”
Footsteps told Rohan that all four Hawthornes were following him.
“Are you done?” Grayson asked Rohan in a manner that proved you really couldn’t punch the arrogance out of some people.
Done fighting? Done quipping? Rohan thought about the inner sanctum at the Mercy, about every weapon he had at his disposal, about the gloved hand that held his gilded leash, and then he answered Grayson’s question. “I’m just getting started.”