hello friends!

here is chapter six!

i don't know how many chapters this is going to be, but it'll be as long as possible! the action is gonna start amping up soon so be prepared!

please let me know how I'm doing on the whole game-planning thing! i'm having to plan the whole game from scratch and I don't know how good I am at at writing mysteries! I've been an escape room planner before but for like little kids so I'm not sure how well this will actually turn out tbh XD

thanks to everyone who's read this story! reviews would make my day so I'd greatly appreciate it if anyone could let me know how this is turning out :)

thanks my friends! I hope you enjoy this chapter...if you couldn't tell by now I'm a gravery shipper so prepare for escalating romantic tensions...

peace out!

Grayson managed to fall asleep on the plane, waking up with his aching head resting on Nash's shoulder. His older brother was still asleep, snoring louder than the engine of the plane.

He glanced over at Avery, still asleep, and Grayson was secretly pleased to see that Jameson had flopped the other way, so that his head rested against the wall instead of Avery.

He mentally smacked himself. She has a boyfriend. And it's not you.

But she kissed you! said the stupidly hopeful part of his brain.

She's also pregnant with your brother's child!

But she did kiss you…

That fact kept taking over his mind, consuming all other thoughts, and Grayson knew that he would never forget that moment in the moonlight, never forget the feel of her lips on his, never forget the whisper of his name into the silver darkness.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, and Grayson forcefully rearranged his features into a neutral expression. Grayson Hawthorne did not smile.

Unfortunately, with waking came the pounding headache, although the nausea had quelled slightly. He curled up again, pulling his knees up, and wrapped his arms around his legs, ducking his head down. It helped him focus on something other than the flight.

If Jameson ever found out what had happened last night, he might actually kill Grayson. It had been bad enough the last time they were fighting over her—did Grayson really want to repeat that?

It was his job to protect his brothers, and protecting their hearts fell under that. If he took Avery away from Jamie, he might never be forgiven.

But for the first time in his life, he almost thought it might be worth it.

The plane landed at two o' clock that afternoon, with Grayson's fists clenched and his teeth gritted as they coasted smoothly onto the runway. He couldn't deny the fear of something going wrong, but he tried his best to ignore it.

Grayson stumbled off the plane with all the grace of a newborn deer, struggling to stop his vision from spinning. Cruising wasn't as bad, but landing and taking off were particularly troublesome to his insides.

"We've gotta find a boat out to Vantage," Nash proclaimed. "Where do we get a boat?"

"Well, first we have to get a taxi to a marina," Avery reminded him. "I'm sure there are rides out to the isles."

They called a taxi, and Grayson was secretly glad to sit down as it sped them to a small harbor, in which several boats were docked. Some of them did not look particularly seaworthy—Grayson hoped they'd be able to find a proper boat, like a yacht or perhaps a cruise ship. Although, he reasoned, that might raise a certain level of suspicion.

He wasn't looking forward to the boat trip, either—boats may have been worse than planes in the realm of motion sickness—but it was only half a mile out to Vantage. Grayson reassured himself that everything would be fine.

The boat was commissioned—a small speedboat that could get the job done quickly. Grayson sat in the back, closed his eyes, and tried not to throw up over the side. If they all made it out of this, he was never getting on a boat or a plane again.

Clouds, heavy with rain, were gathering over the roof of Vantage, promising to break soon. A low rumble of thunder rolled over the turbulent sea, whispering tidings of the coming storm.

"Do we just knock?" Jameson asked, his hand resting protectively on Avery's back as they stepped onto the rocky shore of Vantage.

Grayson shoved the twinge of jealousy back down into his gut. "I suppose so. Jamie, do you have your rifle?"

Jameson hefted his backpack as the boat sped away. "Yeah. I wonder if there's somewhere we can put our stuff."

"You really think your father will be hospitable?" Grayson asked dryly.

A massive flight of stone steps, moss growing in the cracks between them, led up to the front door. Nash sighed audibly at the prospect of climbing them.

The stairs were steep, and by the time they were halfway up, Grayson's calves were burning. He tried to keep from panting as they finally climbed onto the doorstep, staring at the tremendously large oak front doors.

"Everyone ready?" Nash asked, and the rest of them nodded.

The oldest Hawthorne raised a hand, curled it into a fist, and knocked.

The doors swung open, revealing a man with dark hair and what appeared to be a perpetual smirk. A bruise darkened his cheek, and Grayson wondered if Xander had fought when he was kidnapped.

"Ah." A smile curled the man's lips. "The Hawthornes, I presume?"

Jameson gave him a curt nod, his eyes narrowed. Nash tipped his cowboy hat threateningly.

Ian Johnstone-Jameson gestured inside with a flourish. "Welcome."

Vantage was massive, Grayson realized as they stepped inside—just as large, if not bigger than, Hawthorne House. The entrance hall's ceiling soared up eighty feet, coming to a swooping point at the top, from which hung an opulent, intricate crystal chandelier. The enormous, arched windows were made of stained glass, depicting scenes of the tranquil Scottish sea and the night sky, and faint, colorful light shone through them.

"Are you ready for the rules of my game?" Ian asked, rubbing his hands together with a gleeful smile, as if nothing more than a plate of donuts was at stake, instead of a teenager's life.

The bags were placed by the doors as Ian pulled a heavy golden key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock on the doors, and turned it, sealing them inside.

"Allow me to lay out your objective," Jameson's father started. "You have twenty-four hours to break out of Vantage and bring me the spare key to the door. If, at any point, you break a window, pick a lock, or by any other means create an exit that is not already there, Alexander dies. I'd advise you not to attempt anything of the sort—cameras have been placed throughout the house so as to monitor your every move."

Ian smiled. "You get one question. Alexander has been exploring this house for three days now—he has discovered every one of the secret passages. He knows nearly every detail of the game, except for where the key is located. If you simply cannot deduce an answer, you may ask your brother one question.

"No harm will come to you if you abide by the rules and don't get yourselves into dangerous situations. I have made certain that there are no hazards simply lying around, but be warned—there are booby traps.

"If you fail to break out within twenty-four hours, Jameson, you will legally sign the deed to the house away. If you do not do this, Alexander will be shot—but if you do, you walk away with Alexander's life and your safety.

"Your phones, please, ladies and gentlemen." He held out a hand. "I'm afraid I can't have you contacting anyone outside Vantage. If there is a genuine emergency, notify me, and I will alert the authorities. I'll be providing handheld radios for you so you can communicate with each other."

Reluctantly, Grayson handed over his phone, and so did Nash, Jameson, and Avery. Ian walked over to a small table beside the door, upon which rested a heavy iron box and four walkie-talkies.

Ian placed the phones into the box, locked it, and turned around, dusting off his hands. "Are you all ready?"

Grayson nodded, his jaw tensing.

Ian smiled again as another peal of thunder rang through the house, and rain began to beat on the roof, sharp and penetrating.

"Begin."

The four of them each took a walkie-talkie off the table and stood in the entrance hall, dead silent, and then a sharp, bright chord pierced the stifling atmosphere, quickly followed by another as the haunting cry of a violin filled the cavernous room.

"So, are we doing the creepy ambience thing, or…" Jameson trailed off.

"It's a clue," Grayson replied, glancing up at the ceiling, which the sounds bounced off, echoing back down to him. "Chaconne in D Minor, from Bach's Sonata number two."

"Do you play that one?" Avery asked.

Grayson nodded. "It is the most celebrated violin piece of all time. No self-respecting violinist would ever consider not attempting it at some point in their career."

He remembered that piece. He'd played it for the old man when he was fifteen, having practiced it and only it for a full year. Grayson had worked so hard to push Chaconne to perfection, and though he knew he would never measure up to the old man's standards, he harbored a secret hope that he would, at least, not fail.

But, of course, he had. The moment he was finished, his fingers stinging from the vigorous piece, the old man had silently wrested the violin from Grayson's hands, turned to the windowsill of the study, and smashed the instrument.

Grayson remembered the struggle to breathe, the pain that shot through his heart as his beloved violin had sounded its last chord, a dissonant, despairing call. He'd bitten his lip hard, tasted blood, his eyes burning as the old man calmly pushed the remnants of the instrument out of the study window.

He shook the memories away. He needed to focus on Xan.

"The clue could be in the numbers of the sonata," Nash mused. "Or maybe we're supposed to find some kinda music library."

"I wish we had a map," Jameson said despairingly. "We'd be able to find things easier."

"We'll have to split up," Avery decided. "Ian promised no harm would come to us, so it shouldn't be dangerous to go off alone. It'll be more efficient if we're all searching separately."

"We can call each other on the walkie-talkies when we find something, I guess," Jameson decided. "We'll meet back here in—what, an hour?"

Grayson nodded. "Good luck."

"See y'all later," Nash said, tipping his hat again, and they set off. Grayson climbed the grand staircase as the Chaconne faded out, disappearing into the recesses of the house.

The rain pounded overhead, quieter now, softer. Grayson paused in the corridor at the top of the stairs, staring out the window at the stormy ocean, the feathery billows of clouds hovering over the heaving sea, the tranquil, soft shade he always saw in his irises when he looked in the mirror.

Honestly, everything looked better in shades of gray.

Grayson tore his gaze away from the sea and continued on, peering through doors and examining the floor's marble sheen. He didn't see any outlines that might indicate secret passageways, nor any clue as to where a music-related room might be.

It took almost half an hour to come across a large room with innumerable shelves lining the walls, stocked with what appeared to be millions of pieces of very old paper. Upon further inspection, they were pieces of sheet music, organized by composer.

A thrill of excitement ran through Grayson's veins. Chaconne had to be here somewhere—the Bach section was positively enormous, but there had to be an index of some kind. No one would simply file away music without making some sort of note as to where it was.

He walked through the narrow aisles, noting that some of the shelves were too high to reach, even for Xan. There must have been a ladder or a stool available somewhere, though—Ian was not exceptionally tall, and Grayson doubted that any of his ancestors had been able to reach nine-foot-high shelves without assistance.

The only sound was that of Grayson's soft footsteps as he padded between the shelves, scanning, searching—

And then there was a small snap, and a force quickly tightened around his braced ankle, jerking his foot out from under him. Grayson yelped as his head struck the ground, causing stars to burst in his vision, and the whole room was flipped upside down.

Grayson rubbed the back of his head, wincing at what was sure to be a rather nasty bruise. And his concussion had just healed—how marvelous.

"Oh, blast," he mumbled, staring up at the black rope wrapped around his injured ankle. "I suppose this must be a booby trap."

The blood was rushing to his head, making Grayson feel dizzy and lightheaded, and he struggled to stay calm as he tried to think of what to do.

He could attempt to reach up and cut the rope, but there were two problems with that. First off, it required his body to bend in ways that Grayson wasn't certain were possible, and secondly, simply cutting the rope would cause him to land on his head, which he had already done once in the last twenty seconds. So that wasn't an option.

He could call for help on his radio, but Grayson didn't want to risk his dignity like that. Whoever turned up to rescue him would probably use the situation as blackmail material later.

Perhaps he could try swinging? If he could somehow get up to the top of a bookshelf, he could sit on it while he untied the rope.

Swinging proved to be a bad idea, as all Grayson accomplished was knocking several sheaves of music onto the floor and acquiring a lovely new bruise on his shoulder. He vaguely remembered Ian saying that no harm would come to anyone—but only if they didn't get themselves into stupid situations.

This certainly qualified as stupid, Grayson decided. He sighed and went limp, not daring to call for help. Finding a way out of this was certainly going to be difficult.

After about five minutes of hanging uselessly upside down, Grayson attempted swinging again—anything to get himself right side up, his head was really starting to hurt—but misjudged the distance and promptly knocked the entire shelf of music over, sending it toppling against the shelf next to it.

Of course, most of the left side of the music library went down like a row of dominoes, and Grayson winced as the clouds of dust settled—hopefully Chaconne was on one of the still-standing shelves.

But then he caught a glimpse of a dark square underneath the fallen shelf, and he realized that he may have accidentally found what he was looking for. Of course, there was no way to access the passage at the moment.

"Well, this is just fantastic," Grayson muttered, the edge of snark creeping into his voice. "I am simply thrilled."

Hurried footsteps sounded outside, and he sighed. There really was nothing to be done in the way of saving his dignity at this point.

He heard Avery's gasp as she saw the toppled shelves, and then she appeared through the softly falling dust, her eyes widening when she saw Grayson.

"Please don't ask," he groaned, suddenly aware that his shirt was falling down, exposing his stomach, and that his face was probably bright red.

"How on earth—"

"Just get me down."

A smile tugged at Avery's lips. "I guess you found our first booby trap."

"Avery. Seriously. It's rather painful, you know."

She came closer, putting her hands on his flushed cheeks. "Aw, Gray. Don't worry, I'll save you."

Avery glanced around the room, Grayson's face still cupped in her hands, and he felt his cheeks burn hotter as her gaze landed on a small, cushioned loveseat.

"Just a second," she reassured him, walking over to the loveseat and grabbing its armrest. It seemed to take considerable effort, but Avery dragged the tiny couch across the room, positioning it directly below Grayson.

"Please hurry," he begged, his teeth gritted. His ankle may have hurt worse than his head at this point.

Avery climbed on top of the loveseat and pulled a knife from her pocket. Grayson hadn't know she had one, but Avery did seem like the type of girl who would carry around a pocketknife.

She sawed at the rope, and after several seconds, Grayson felt the pressure around his ankle release, dropping him onto the loveseat with a strangled yelp. At the last second, he managed to tilt his head so that his shoulder hit the couch first, and from there, Grayson rolled off, landing on the floor in a rather undignified heap.

"Are you okay?" Avery asked, and he could hear the laugh in her voice.

"No," he groaned, sitting up and massaging his temples for what felt like the umpteenth time in the last twenty-four hours. "I assure you, it was not a pleasant experience."

Grayson placed a hand on the armrest of the loveseat and pulled himself up, then let out a hiss of pain as his ankle protested, nearly giving out. Sinking down onto the cushions, he gingerly pulled the remains of the rope off his ankle, wincing.

"Is it broken again?" Avery asked softly.

Grayson probed the joint, trying to massage the pain into oblivion. "I don't think so. But I don't believe that sped up the healing process at all."

He tried to shake it off, standing up and limping over to the passageway. "Ladies first."

She smiled, and together, they descended into the darkness.

—XANDER—

"Can we please take this gun away from my head?" Xander pleaded. "It's getting really uncomfortable!"

He heard Ian sigh. "No, kid. I wouldn't be following the rules of the game if I let you go."

"But I have to use the bathroom," Xander complained, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Please can I go do that?"

"Fine. But you'll only be allowed to take off the blindfold once you're inside—we can't have you seeing where we are."

Xander's captor—he didn't know who it was, as he was blindfolded, but he assumed it was Ian's accomplice, Katherine—yanked him upright, the barrel of the gun still pressed to his temple.

He was led down what might have been a short hallway and shoved through a door, which shut behind Xander with a click. He reached up and pulled the blindfold off, wincing at the bright light.

The bathroom was small, with no windows whatsoever, and escaping out through any pipes—the toilet or the sink, maybe—was an impossibility, not to mention unsanitary. There was no feasible way to escape from Vantage.

Xander sighed and did his business, and while washing his hands, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He winced—his hair was even messier than usual, sticking up in all the wrong places, and a five o' clock shadow was starting on his jaw. Xander's facial hair grew extremely slowly, but it had been nearly three days since he'd shaved.

He glanced at the faint circles of lilac under his eyes—nowhere near as pronounced as Gray's usually were, but still there. Xander wasn't sure why he had them—the bed he'd been sleeping in at Vantage was quite comfortable. He did keep having nightmares, though, so that was probably a contributing factor.

"I'm done," he called, tying the blindfold back over his eyes.

The door opened, and his captor's vice grip tightened on his arm again, the metal of the gun's barrel pressing into his temple. They walked the short distance again, and then Xander was shoved back down into the chair.

"How's everyone doing?" he asked. "Do you think they'll get out in twenty-four hours?"

"I doubt it," Ian said smugly, and Xander could picture his satisfied smile. "This game has been in the works for months—it's incredibly detailed and complex. I truly believe that there is no way I can come out of this without Vantage."

"I wonder if they're gonna ask me a question," Xander mused. "It better not be anything stupid. I mean, I'd probably ask a stupid question, but I hope they don't. Gray wouldn't, and Avery wouldn't, but Jamie and Nash might if they were really stressed. Also, how much can I tell them when they ask a question?"

"You can answer the question," Ian informed him. "Nothing else. No hints besides those pertaining to the question. That is why I withheld the location of the key from you—otherwise, they'd simply ask you where it was."

"Can we not do this gun thing?" Xander asked, wincing as the metal dug into his soft skin. "It's kinda starting to hurt. I have a concussion, remember?"

"I'm afraid I can't release you—"

"You don't have to release me," Xander reasoned. "You could, I don't know, tie me to the chair and have whoever's holding this gun stand with it pointed at me. They could still shoot me."

"But then the shot isn't as accurate," Ian argued.

"Then just shoot me through the head when my brothers screw up! You don't have to hold it to my head the whole time! What if it accidentally goes off?"

He pictured Ian pinching the bridge of his nose as he replied, sounding exasperated. "Look, kid, it makes more sense to have the gun there—"

"I know you're gonna blow my brains out if anyone breaks the rules," Xander snapped, "but if you accidentally blow my brains out, I'm suing!"

"You can't sue, you'll be dead!"

"I know! So you better promise the gun won't just go off and kill me!"

"Do I look like I'm trying to kill you?"

"I have no idea! I can't see you!"

Xander had an increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation, and he sighed. "Fine! But if you accidentally kill me, you have to let Jamie have the house!"

"I can't make that deal, kid."

"Then take this stupid gun and shove it up your—"

The gun was swiftly removed, and what felt like a cold, rough hand slapped Xander across the cheek. He gasped, his hand flying up to the burning patch of skin, his thoughts flying back to when he'd accidentally set the old man's study on fire and his grandfather had hit him for it.

"I'd advise you not to struggle, Xander," said a cool, silky voice as the gun was placed at his temple again. "It may not turn out well for you."

Under the blindfold, Xander's eyes went wide.

That was clearly not Katherine. Xander knew that voice.

And it was one he'd never thought he'd hear again.

—GRAYSON—

"I have to ask you something," Grayson whispered, his voice barely penetrating the stifling air of the tunnel.

"What?" Avery asked distractedly, running her fingers over the stone wall as they walked.

"Last night." Grayson's cheeks started to flush again. "Why—why did you—you know—"

Avery stopped, turning to face him. "To be honest, Gray, it just came over me. That was it."

"But Jamie's your boyfriend," Grayson protested. "Avery, you're going to have my brother's child. And what would he think if he found out what we did last night?"

"He doesn't have to know," Avery said softly. "I don't want him to."

"But it's not right, Avery—Jamie is your baby's father. He deserves to be the one to help raise them." Grayson stared at the floor. "And he deserves you much more than I do."

"Gray," Avery murmured, placing a hand on his chest. "I realized last night that I made a mistake. Two years ago, I thought the right choice was obvious—but I didn't make the right choice. Or—" She sighed. "I didn't make the best choice."

Grayson held his breath.

"I thought I knew," she whispered. "But when I found out about—about our baby, I just—"

Avery turned away, her hand settling upon the cold stone of the wall. "I wished it was yours. I love Jamie, and I have for two years, but it took me so long to realize that I still loved you too."

I still loved you.

The words struck him in the heart, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest as his heart started to beat faster.

"Avery," Grayson said, and she glanced up at him, her eyes bright.

"I want you to know that you didn't miss your chance," he told her. "But I can't take Jamie's happiness away. He is the father of your child, and he should have that joy—I won't be the one to take it from him."

"So you don't feel the same way?"

There was fire in her gaze now, smoldering embers, a distant light.

"That's not what I meant," Grayson said quietly. "I care about you deeply, Avery—more than I have about almost anyone else, and I would be honored to be yours. But I feel that you would be happier with Jamie."

"Gray."

Avery's voice trembled.

So did his heart.

"I want you."

I want you too.

The silvery glow of the previous night seemed to be streaming into the narrow, dark tunnel, illuminating every contour of Avery's face, and Grayson's heart pulsed with the overwhelming need to love her back.

He reached out and gently took her hand, feeling how warm it was against his pale fingers, realizing that this was the moment he'd waited for for the last two years.

The moment he never thought he could have.

The moment he still couldn't have.

He wanted to kiss her, but he didn't. Instead, Grayson pulled Avery into a tight embrace, holding her against his chest, and he could feel her heartbeat thudding against his pectorals, trying to beat in time with his.

"Sometimes we can't have what we want," Grayson whispered, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt the burn of tears in his eyes.

"And I don't care," Avery said fiercely, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I'm an heiress. I get what I want."

Grayson pulled back, studying her eyes, and he felt like he could drown in the sheer depth of them, the deep, bright pools of her gaze.

She reached up, her hand brushing his cheek. "And I can make anything happen."

"You know money can't buy love, right?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Of course I do," Avery assured him. "But I can make this happen if you want."

Do I want it?

"Are you sure?" Grayson heard himself ask, the second time in two days.

Avery smiled. "Watch me."

Of course, there was still a game going on, so Grayson and Avery were obligated to explore the rest of the passageway, but it ended with what felt, in the dark, like some kind of stone wheel.

"It must have a combination," Avery guessed. "We'd need a light to see."

"Do the walkie-talkies have them?" Grayson asked, fumbling with his in the dark. He finally found the small button just underneath the one for the power, and he turned on the light.

There was indeed a wheel in the center of the passage, with letters marked around the edge—A, B, C, D, E, F, G.

Avery was staring at the letters confusedly, but Grayson was internally triumphant—because he knew this, and he understood—he looked at those letters and he heard music.

"We have to find the Chaconne," Grayson said. "It most likely has the key to the wheel."

"How do you know?" Avery asked, running a hand over the stone circle.

"That is the musical alphabet," Grayson explained, gesturing toward the letters. "I suspect that the Chaconne has some sort of imperfection—some outstanding feature that will reveal the code."

Suddenly, both of their walkie-talkies crackled to life, startling Grayson so that he jumped and nearly cracked his head on the ceiling. Feeling the blush creep back into his cheeks, he pulled the radio from his belt and listened as Nash spoke.

"It's been almost an hour, y'all. Let's get back down to the entrance hall and tell each other what we found."

Grayson led the way back to the end of the passage, turning to help Avery out. His ankle still twinged when he put weight on it, and he tried not to limp as they set off back down the corridor.

It took nearly ten minutes to even get back to the entrance hall, but they all made it there eventually, Nash with his cowboy hat singed and Jameson panting heavily.

"There was fire," Nash gasped, straightening his hat. "It came outta the walls!"

"Are you okay?" Avery asked.

Nash nodded. "I did find this. It was sittin' on top of a bookshelf in the library."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny flashlight, which lit up with a soft purple glow as he pressed the button.

"That's a black light," Jameson observed. "We'll probably need it for something later—invisible ink or something like that."

Nash stowed the flashlight back into his pocket. "That's all I found. Took a heckuva long time to get around this place."

"There's a room with a bunch of holes in the walls," Jameson reported. "It might be a water trap—we'll have to be careful if we go in there. And I found what could be some secret passages, but I don't know how to open them. One of them's in the fireplace."

"I found the music library," Grayson informed the others.

"And got stuck in a booby trap," Avery added.

Nash and Jameson broke out into gleeful smiles, and Grayson's expression turned to steel. "Nevertheless, we still managed to uncover a secret passage, though we haven't begun searching for the Chaconne yet. I may or may not have collapsed several shelves, so it will be more difficult to locate the piece."

A bell rung—incredibly loudly, as if said bell were an absolute behemoth—and a voice echoed through the cavernous halls of Vantage.

"Twenty-three hours remaining."

The final echoes of the bell died away, and Grayson glanced up at the massive clock on the wall. "We might want to hurry."