Cam nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Bishop’s right. We can’t start doubting ourselves now. The games have always been about pushing limits, testing our resolve. If we back down now, what does that say about us?”
Sly opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “No. I don’t want to hear it. Whatever Prescott said to you at the cliffs, whatever doubts she’s planted in your head—you need to shake them off. Now.”
Cam nods slowly, his expression grim. “The games are sacred. They’re what bind us together, what make us who we are.”
“Exactly,” I say, feeling a surge of gratitude toward him. At least someone here still has their head on straight. “This isn’t just about us. It’s about preserving our way of life, our traditions. If we let her tear that down, what’s left?”
Sly looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue further. Good. The last thing we need right now is dissent in the ranks.
Sutton sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
I extend my closed fist between us, and the rest of our group follows suit. A sense of relief washes over me. “So we’re all on the same page?”
Cam responds with a nod, while Sutton and Sly waver only for a moment before also nodding. I concur silently, and weeach raise our thumbs and twist our wrists to the left, forming a square with our connected fingers.
“It’s decided then.” I confirm.
A thick silence blankets the room as we break apart, our promise hanging between us like an invisible thread. I can see the doubt lingering in Sly’s eyes, the hesitation in Sutton’s posture. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve agreed, and that’s what counts.
“So what now?” Cam asks, cutting through the quiet.
I look around the hideous black and white circus tent once again, my lip curling in disgust. “Well, this is the club Prescott decided to enroll herself in, so I say first chance we get we burn it to the ground.”
Chapter 19
Alex
Iglance at my map once more, double-checking that I have the right location. The letters above the doors are either faded or completely gone, leaving only a faint outline of where they used to be.
According to the map, this is where the natatorium should be, so I enter the building and hope for the best. I pass through a second set of doors expecting to see a pool filled with water, but instead I see a giant empty basin and a room devoid of anything except for bleached white walls and floors.
Where is the water?
The scent of chlorine lingers in the air, a sharp and slightly chemical aroma that stings the nostrils, adding to the sterile and cold feel.
I take a few cautious steps forward, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The emptiness is unsettling, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
In the far corner sits a large cement mixer surrounded by several bags of material.
Interesting.
The bags around the mixer are labeled with various chemical compounds, some I recognize, others completely foreign to me. A thin layer of white dust covers everything, settling into the creases of my shoes as I walk.
Suddenly, a trickle echoes through the empty natatorium. I whirl around, but the basin remains bone dry. Another splash, louder this time, has me sprinting back out the doors I’d come through.
My relationship with water has always been rocky, but since I arrived at Altair, it seems to have completely soured. How could something so essential for survival bring me so much discomfort? Yet here I was, still trying to find a way to coexist with this element.
As I stumble forward, arms suddenly wrap around me, stopping me before I fall into them. I open my mouth to apologize, only to come face-to-face with my shadow. The regret immediately dies on my tongue. Of course, it had to be Bishop who crossed paths with me.
His hair is a wild mess of brown strands, framing green eyes that glint with an unyielding harshness. His face is a stoic mask, unbreakable and impenetrable, making it nearly impossible to decipher his thoughts. That is, until he realizes who’s beneath him and his lips drop into a ferocious scowl.
Why do the jerks always have to be so hot?
“Watch where you’re going, Prescott,” Bishop grunts, his tone a throaty murmur that stirs something within me. Or maybe it's because he's still touching me. His hands linger on my arms for a moment too long before he abruptly releases me, taking a rough step back.
I straighten up, trying to regain my composure. Focus. “Next time I’ll be sure to wear a bell so you can hear me, asshole,” I say, righting my blazer back into place.
Bishop’s eyes narrow, his gaze flickering over my face, then past me to the doors I’d just burst through. “What were you doing in there?” he demands, suspicion coloring his words.