By Rohan’s estimation, they had a little over four hours left until dawn. He and Savannah had been searching for hours, and they’d made no progress.
A Needle In A Haystack wasn’t their clue. It seemed, instead, to be a description of their task. They’d spent far too much time already looking for their needle, a clue in a room with seemingly endless hay to sort through. They’d gone back to the stack of boxes they’d pulled from the shelves, searching for crowns and scepters and thrones. Every applicable piece— including those from A Needle In A Haystack—had been examined.
Thoroughly.
When that had turned up nothing, Rohan and Savannah had extended their search to every other game in the room as well. They’d opened every box in search of the target items. They’d emptied the shelves and searched them, too, looking for buttons or triggers, to no avail.
And, per Rohan’s mental map, this was most certainly not their final room—or puzzle.
“Savannah.” Rohan didn’t shorten her name. “We need to take the hint.”
Savannah placed herself squarely in front of the hint button. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a person who gave up that easily.”
“I’m a strategist. Some days, that’s all I am: brutal, no-holds-barred strategy. In my line of work, you have to know when to cut your losses, when to divert.”
“I suppose that’s the difference between us.” Savannah lifted her chin. “I don’t lose, so there are no losses to cut.”
“I could fight you for it,” Rohan commented.
“Been there,” Savannah replied archly. “Done that.”
It was clear to him from her tone: Part of her wanted to spar, the same way part of him did. But strategy was never subject to want.
He gave her a push of a different sort. “You don’t like asking for help, do you, Savvy?”
“It is less about whether I like it than whether I do it.” She gave him one of those very Savannah Grayson looks, icy and sure. “I do not. People make mistakes. If you rely on others, their mistakes become yours.”
Her voice was oh-so-calm, but Rohan saw the fury buried behind Savannah’s silvery eyes when she said the word mistakes, like a fire burning inside a vault.
The labyrinth shifted. Savannah was here for her father, and she was angry about mistakes that were not hers.
Has Sheffield Grayson returned? Is he forcing you to do this? Or is that anger directed toward someone else? Rohan wasn’t sure. Yet.
“You’re angry, love.” Sometimes, instead of manipulating a target’s emotions, all you had to do was leverage what they already felt.
Savannah’s body reacted to his voice and his words: a deeper breath, a slight curl of her fingers, tension in what he could see of her neck. “I’m not angry,” she said, her voice high and clear. “Why would I be?”
“Society isn’t always kind to angry women.” Rohan’s words hit their target.
“I don’t need kindness. I just need everyone else to get out of my way.” “And I need you,” Rohan replied, “to agree to take the hint. Whatever
we’re missing, at this point, we’re just going to keep missing it. We have no direction. We have no plan. We have nothing. Do you enjoy having nothing, Savvy?” He paused. “Does your father?”
That was a test, an experiment. She didn’t react in any visible way. Savannah’s poker face was a thing to behold, and when she spoke, her tone was just as controlled. “When this part of the game is over, and you and I are no longer a team…” Finally, the real Savannah peeked through: strength and endurance and fury. “I am going to destroy you. And I promise, Rohan, I will enjoy that.”
“Is that a yes?” Rohan prompted. “On the hint?”
Savannah turned toward the panel and laid her palm over the red button. “I should agree to take the hint, so I will.” Her voice was higher now, clear and overtly feminine and pleasant. “After all,” she continued, her eyes like knives, “society is kindest to women who do what they should.”
