Chapter 7

Christmas was rapidly approaching, and Jameson, Grayson, and I were the only ones left in the game. I had Jameson. Jameson had Grayson. Grayson had me.

It had taken me some time to come up with the perfect present for Jameson, and it had taken me even longer to find his base, which I eventually located in the closed-off passageway behind my fireplace. Jameson’s defenses were impressive, but Grayson was more than happy to help me take out his brother.

The moment that Jameson walked in to find Grayson caught in the booby traps he’d laid for me was sweet for so many reasons.

Rainbow tinsel was a good look for Grayson Hawthorne.

Surprise was a good look for Jameson.

Victory was an incredible look for me.

His gaze lingering on mine, Jameson ducked down to pick up the present I’d wedged through the motion-sensor-laden garland that surrounded his base. I’d chosen to leave Jameson’s present right next to the object he’d used to mark his base: a travel-sized bottle of Jameson whiskey with the label peeled off.

Clever Hawthorne.

I watched as Jameson opened the envelope containing his gift from me. Inside, there was a flight plan and a travel itinerary.

The day after Christmas, he and I were headed to Tahiti.

Christmas Eve. I was Grayson’s target. He was mine. Since all his brothers had a wish to see him dethroned from Secret Santa supremacy, I had no shortage of allies.

But he was Grayson Hawthorne.

Maybe that was how the two of us ended up in a standoff in the hallway in between our bases, weapons drawn, our gifts for each other in our free hands.

“Christmas is tomorrow,” I said, ready to pull the trigger at a moment’s notice. “If either one of us shoots, the other loses.”

If both of us shot, and both of us hit our targets, we both would.

“I like my chances,” Grayson told me.

I gave him a look that, by this point, he probably recognized all too well. “No. You don’t.”

Keeping his eyes on me the entire time, Grayson knelt. His present for me was large and unwieldly—at least four feet long, maybe eight inches wide, not that deep. But somehow, Grayson Hawthorne managed to place it on the ground without ever losing his balance.

Without ever taking his eyes off me.

My present for Grayson was smaller. I laid it on the ground beside his offering.

“I’ll open yours,” Grayson proposed. “You open mine.” He was every inch the heir apparent, used to striking deals. “Loser drops their gun and submits.”

I could only assume that by loser, he meant the person whose present was less perfect.

“Deal,” I told Grayson.

I opened his present for me first. Beneath solid silver wrapping paper, garnished with a perfect navy bow, I found a wooden box made of cedar.

Four feet long, less than a foot wide, not that deep. I had no idea what was inside, but the second I opened the box, I was hit with the realization that I probably should have guessed what he’d gotten me.

“A longsword,” I said, running my fingers along its blade.

“I’m told its first bearer was a woman,” Grayson murmured. “Sixteenth century, give or take.”

My fingers worked their way into round, hollow places in the sword’s hilt, where I suspected there had once been jewels.

I liked it better without them.

“Now we have five,” I said. In the center of the hedge maze outside, there was a hidden compartment that held four longswords, originally purchased for the four Hawthorne brothers.

And now there were five.

My confidence in my own present wavered, just for a moment. But as Grayson began to unwrap it, I felt a surge of rightness.

Wrapping paper fell to the floor as Grayson turned the plain gray rock over in his hands. It was smooth—ocean smooth, the result of thousands of years of waves. The only parts of the rock that weren’t smooth were the inscriptions, front and back.

On the front, I’d gone for a familiar Latin phrase. EST UNUS EX NOBIS. NOS DEFENDAT EIUS. It was something Grayson had said about me once. On the back, I’d opted for English, something that I had said to him.

IT GOES BOTH WAYS.

Grayson’s fingers closed around the rock and he looked up, his eyes locking on to mine once more.

“Merry Christmas, Grayson,” I said. I was on the verge of proposing a tie, but I didn’t get the chance.

“Avery?” Grayson took a step toward me, and his lips curved into one of those very Grayson Hawthorne smiles, subtle but true. “You win.”