Page 33 of The Bleak Beginning

“Put that skill to use,” I maintain, my tone neutral, even as my chest tightens with an irritation I refuse to acknowledge.

Sly’s grin widens, cocky as ever. “I’ll get under her skin alright. By the time I’m done with Alex, she’ll be begging to spill her secrets.”

I nod, satisfied. My friend’s methods may be unorthodox, but they get results. And right now, results are all that matter.

“Just remember,” I caution, “we need her out of the picture, not in our pocket.”

Sly scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “Please. You know me better than that. I’m a professional.”

I huffed, unamused. The only thing he was professional at was swimming. His ego, on the other hand, made him believe he walked on water instead of swimming through it.

“Fine,” I agree. Not caring as long as it ended with Prescott leaving. I needed her out of Altair and away from us. Away from me.

The Altair games were a reminder to everyone of our standing, the power, the influence we held. I wouldn’t allow us to be ridiculed, we wouldn’t be embarrassed again because of one person. We are Legacies. People fear us for a reason, and I wouldn’t let a Prescott dictate my future. Not again.Not ever.

This is justice. This is setting things right.

I turn and head towards the dock, the air filling my lungs as Sly and Cam head in the opposite direction, no doubt to try and rid themselves of the glittery consequences of their actions. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cam goes through three bottles of shampoo trying to clean his precious locks. He spends more time in the bathroom in the mornings than any other person I’ve met.

The water laps gently against the pier, deceptively calm. Prescott’s bag hangs from the pole in the center of the water. It was a captive on display, like a pinned butterfly, its contents exposed and vulnerable, much like I hoped to make Prescott feel. She needed to leave, and I would be the one to make sure that happened.

“Yo Ashbourne, you done pretending to be a rock? Why not come give us a hand,” one of my rowing teammates, Reith, calls from the water.

“Rocks don’t have to do evening practice or deal with your ugly mug,” I holler in return.

Reith snorts. “Yeah, right. More like you were napping and hoping we wouldn’t notice.” His face is stretched in a wide grin, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin as he leans over the side of the racing shell, the rest of the rowing team helping him row closer to where I stand.

“Maybe I was just enjoying the view. I appreciate seeing my team betraying me by letting you have stroke.”

“You should be thanking me,” he says putting a mock sympathetic hand to his chest, even though he was still grinning. “If coach doesn’t see you on the boat by the time we make it back around, he’ll have you running laps instead.”

I swallow down my groan, knowing he’s right. Coach Barkley has a particular fondness for doling out punishments that involve running laps around Altair’s newly renovated boathouse and natatorium.

“Fine. But get out of my spot,” I demand, shoving my way into my rightful place at the stern.

I clamber into the narrow shell, settling into my seat with practiced ease. The familiar weight of the oar in my hands is oddly comforting.

“But if we capsize because any of you can’t keep a steady rhythm, I’m dragging you back onboard just to shove you overboard myself,” I promise over my shoulder as my team and I start to row.

One of my teammates dares to laugh, but the sound is cut short, lodging deep in their throat once they see the sharpness in my gaze.

Fucking freshman.

As I grip the oars, my muscles bulge and flex, creating a rhythm, working in sync as our boat glides. The familiar stretch of my muscles sends a satisfying burn through my arms and back. With each pull of the oars, I can feel the strength in my team as we work together to propel the boat forward.

I breathe in the familiar cool air, and it leaves a subtle taste on my tongue, one I associate with being around water.

We’re making good time, our strokes in perfect unison. I can feel the freshman behind me struggling to keep up, his breathing more labored than the rest. But he’s holding his own, determined not to be the weak link. As he should. Places on my row team are earned. Not given.

As we round the bend, I catch sight of Coach Barkley on the shore, his stocky figure pacing back and forth like a caged animal. His whistle hangs around his neck, ready to screech out commands at a moment’s notice.

“Pick up the pace!” I bark, feeling a surge of adrenaline. “We’re not here for a leisurely cruise.”

I hear a few grumbles behind me. Only one actually voices their thoughts aloud—Reith, the single person on the team who’s ever dared to say anything, but my inferiors do as I ask, and the rhythm picks up.

The oars slice through the water with renewed vigor, our boat cutting through the water, leaving a trail of foamy white behind it. I can feel the burn in my muscles, the strain in my arms and legs as I pull harder, setting the example for the rest of the team.

Reith’s grumbling fades into heavy breathing as we all focus on the task at hand. The shoreline blurs, trees and rocks melding into a green and gray smear in my peripheral vision. All that matters now is the boat, the water, and the pulsing beat of our synchronized strokes.

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