Page 107 of The Inheritance Games

Rebecca made a garbled sound the second I said Thea’s name.

“Rebecca,” Grayson said, his voice low.

“I know,” Rebecca said. “But Emily wouldn’t have wanted…”

“Emily’s gone.”Grayson’s tone wasn’t harsh, but his words took Rebecca’s breath away. “Bex.” He made her look at him. “Rebecca. I’ll take care of this. I promise you: Everything is going to be fine.”

“Everything isnotfine,” I told Grayson.

“Go,” he murmured to Rebecca. She went, and we were alone.

Grayson lowered himself slowly into the hidden room. “Xander said you needed me.”

He’d come. Maybe that would have meant more if I hadn’t just had that conversation with Rebecca.

“Your mother tried to have me killed.”

“My mother,” Grayson said, “is a complicated woman. But she’s family.”

And he would choose family over me, every time.

“If I asked you to let me handle this,” he continued, “would you? I can guarantee that no more harm will come to you or yours.”

How exactly he could guarantee anything was unclear, but there was no doubt that he believed he could.The world bends to the will of Grayson Hawthorne.I thought about the day I’d met him, how sure he’d seemed of himself, how invincible.

“What if I play you for it?” Grayson asked when I didn’t reply. “You like a challenge. I know you do.” He stepped toward me. “Please, Avery. Give me a chance to make this right.”

There was no making this right—but all he’d asked for was a chance.I don’t owe him that. I don’t owe him anything. But—

Maybe it was the expression on his face. Or the knowledge that he’d already lost everything to me once. Maybe I just wanted him to see me and think about something other than October eighteenth.

“I’ll play you for it,” I said. “What’s the game?”

Grayson’s silver eyes held mine. “Think of a number,” he told me. “One to ten. If I guess it, you let me handle the situation with my mother my way. If I don’t…”

“I turn her in to the police.”

Grayson took half a step toward me. “Think of a number.”

The odds were in my favor here. He only had a 10 percent chance of guessing correctly. I had a 90 percent chance that he would get it wrong. I took my time choosing. There were certain numbers that people defaulted to. Seven, for instance. I could go for an extreme—one or ten, but those seemed like easy guesses, too. Eight was on my brain, from the days we’d spent solving the numerical sequence. Four was the number of Hawthorne brothers.

If I wanted to keep him from guessing, I needed to go for something unexpected. No rhyme, no reason.

Two.

“Do you want me to write the number down?” I asked.

“On what?” Grayson asked softly.

I swallowed. “How do you know that I won’t lie about my number if you get it right?”

Grayson was quiet for a few seconds, then spoke. “I trust you.”

I knew, with every fiber of my being, that Grayson Hawthorne didn’t trust easily—or much. I swallowed. “Go ahead.”

He took at least as much time generating his guess as I had choosing my number. He looked at me, and I could feel him trying to unravel my thoughts and impulses, to solve me, like one more riddle.

What do you see when you look at me, Grayson Hawthorne?