Page 88 of Glorious Rivals (The Grandest Game #2)

ROHAN

P ower came, always, at a cost. The only question was what the price was—and who was going to pay it. Fortunately for Rohan, there was clarity in pain.

And even more fortunately for Rohan, Jameson Hawthorne was a desperate man. He tracked Rohan down, the way Rohan had very much hoped that he would.

“I have an offer for you,” Jameson said, his jaw hard.

The human body told stories, if you knew how to listen. Rohan assessed Jameson for a moment. The muscles in Jameson’s jaw were just the beginning. And there’s my safety net. Rohan had not pieced together exactly what was going on here—yet.

But he would.

“I need ten million pounds, and I need it in the next seven weeks,” he told Jameson. “You appear to be down an heiress. You should have taken me up on my offer sooner.”

Like power, Rohan’s assistance would come at a price.

“I have money of my own.” The story that Jameson Hawthorne’s body was telling right now was a story of a dangerous, brutal, almost inhuman thing barely leashed. The man was broken. And Rohan had always had a certain fascination for broken things.

Putting them back together—or scavenging them for parts.

“Help me find Avery,” Jameson said fiercely, “and the money is yours—what you need and more, every dime I have, no strings attached.”

Yes , Rohan thought, the words a low, vibrating hum in his mind. Yes. That will do.

“And how precisely do you believe that I can be of assistance?” Rohan asked. Information, in times like these, was priceless.

“The duchess.” Jameson’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Zella. She knows something.”

Of course she does , Rohan thought. His rival was a master of the long game—in all likelihood, more than one.

Taking her down would be a pleasure. His pleasure.

“I’ll need the money before I can go back to London,” Rohan told Jameson. “Technicalities. You understand.”

“You’ll get the money when I get Avery back.”

Well, that could be a problem—but then, Rohan had always excelled at taking care of problems.

Without waiting for Rohan’s assent, Jameson turned, walking away—stalking, really, like a desperate, broken, dangerous man with somewhere to be.

“Where are you going?” Rohan called. “Where will I find you, once I have the information you need?”

Jameson’s stride never even broke. “Prague.”