10. Bishop
Chapter 10
Bishop
I finish tugging on my jeans, zipping my dick safely back inside, while stealing an annoyed glance at Ophelia. She lay sprawled on the blanket she brought, hair tousled with sand, eyes closed as she basked in the afterglow. The moonlight cast a radiance on her bare skin.
“We should get going,” I demand, my voice gruff. “The tide’s coming in.”
Ophelia stretches out languidly, in no hurry. “Mmm, let it come. I wouldn’t mind being stranded here with you,” she purrs.
“Come on,” I urge, tossing her dress onto her exposed tits. She’s always like this after sex. Extra needy. Always thinking this is more than what it is.
Ophelia huffs, finally sitting up and slipping the dress over her head. “You’re always in such a rush to leave,” she murmurs, a hint of hurt in her voice.
I turn away, scanning the beach for any sign of other people. We were far enough down that the sand had mostly turned to rocks, but the last thing I want is to get caught out here. “That’s because this is just sex, Ophelia. Nothing more.”
She stood, brushing sand from her legs. “It doesn’t have to be, you know. We could—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off sharply. “We’ve been over this. I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“But your mother said—”
“But, nothing.”
Ophelia’s eyes flash with anger, her earlier languor evaporating. “Your mother said I would be the perfect match for you.”
I clench my jaw, cursing my mother’s big mouth. “My mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
She does, but I wasn’t in the mood to get into that with Ophelia tonight.
“Fine,” she snaps, snatching up her shoes and blanket. “Then I guess I’ll see you around.”
She storms off down the beach, her bare feet kicking up sand. I watch her go, not feeling a single twinge of regret. In my life there’d never been any use for true emotions.
I followed the path along the shoreline back to the party.
Cam had his hand underneath some girl’s shirt. Not that she seemed to mind, since she was trying to swallow his face with her tongue.
Avoiding them, I take a seat next to Sly on an old tree log as he wordlessly hands me a beer. The fire feels warm against my skin. The flames helping against the chill of the night air and waters breeze.
“Thanks,” I mutter, popping the cap off and taking a long swig. The bitter liquid slides down my throat, a familiar comfort.
Sly nods, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. “So, you piss off Ophelia?” he asks. “She stormed back here pretty upset for someone who just got fucked.”
I shrug, nonchalant. “She knows where I stand. If she chooses not to believe it, that’s on her.”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. “You’re a cold bastard, Ashbourne. But I get it. Can’t let anyone get too close, right?”
I grunt in response, taking another swig of beer. Sly understands better than most. We’ve been friends since childhood, each of us a Legacy groomed for this from birth. He knows the pressure, the expectations.
“Speaking of, you know that senior I hooked up with a few times? Well, turns out in her post orgasm bliss she spilled some info on what to expect this year for the games.”
I turned to look at him, my interest piqued. “What’s that?”
Sly leans in closer, speaking in a hushed tone, despite the privacy of our campfire. It’s just the two of us, but we can never be too cautious. “Word is, they’re changing things up this year. New challenges, higher stakes.”
A thrill of excitement runs through me, mixed with a healthy dose of apprehension. I wasn’t surprised that the teachers felt the need to do this, seeing as we would all be playing together in the same year.
The Altair games had always been intense for the juniors that take part every year, a brutal test of our abilities, but especially for Legacy students. But if what Sly’s saying is true, this year could be a whole new level of dangerous.
“Any specifics?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, despite the sudden tension in my gut.
He shakes his head. “Not much. But she did mention something about ‘real-world consequences.’ Whatever that means.”
I lean back, mulling over his words. Real-world consequences. That could mean anything from public exposure to actual life-or-death situations. The university has always pushed boundaries, but this…this feels different.
“You think they’re trying to weed us out?” I muse, more to myself than to Sly.
He shrugs, his usual cocky grin faltering for a moment. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re preparing us for something bigger.”
Or they were trying to stop what happened to my mother and her games from happening all over again.
It was rare to have all four Legacy families in the same grade level to compete together. It’s only happened less than a handful of times in our university’s long history, so the expectations for us this year were higher than high.
“You think they’re grooming us for something specific?” I ask, my voice low.
Sly tosses a stick into the fire, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Who knows.”
We lapse into silence, the crackling of the fire and the sound of waves filling the air. I take another drink, willing the alcohol to dull my thoughts of the unknown.
The games have always been more than just a school competition—they’re a proving ground for future operatives, spies, and leaders. If the stakes are being raised, it’s for a reason.
A twig snaps behind us, and we both whirl around, instincts kicking in. Cam emerges from the shadows, his dark hair gleaming in the firelight. He and his plaything for the evening must’ve finished up.
“Discussing the games without me?” he asks, his tone light but his eyes sharp.
Sly forces a smile. “Just speculating. You know anything?”
Cam settles beside us, reaching for a bottle of his own. “You know how they are; everything is so hush-hush.”
So basically, he was saying he knew nothing. Which wasn’t surprising, I know my mother hasn’t said much, same with Sly’s dad and Cam’s mom, but what could they really say? They had been forced to surrender.
“Maybe that’s the point,” Sly muses, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. “To see how we handle the pressures of the unknown. You know they’ve already been gauging us in our classes. Sizing us up in preparation.”
Cam takes a long swig from the bottle, wincing slightly as the liquid burns down his throat. “Or to see which of us breaks first.”
“It won’t be any of us,” I say darkly, sure of my friends and future teammates abilities.
A sudden gust of wind whips through our area, causing the fire to flicker and dance. I pull my jacket tighter around me, suppressing a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold.
“You’re right.” Sly nods. “Whatever they throw at us, we can handle it.”
Cam’s eyes narrow, a hint of challenge in his voice. “Even if it means going up against each other?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. We’ve always been a team. But previous Altair games have been notorious for pitting friends against each other, testing loyalties and pushing ethical boundaries.
“Whatever they throw at us,” Sly says, his voice sure and determined, “we stick together.”
Cam nods, passing a fresh drink to me. “Agreed. No matter what.”
I take another swig, the alcohol warming my insides. “To the bitter end,” I add, raising the bottle in a mock toast before setting it down.
The fire pops loudly, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky. For a moment, we’re all silent, lost in our own thoughts.
“Wanna do something fun?” Sly asks suddenly. “We haven’t done anything fun in a long time.”
I raised an eyebrow at him because he wasn’t wrong, we’d spent last year prepping, and then this year Prescott had been thrown at us, so we haven’t had a lot of down time. “Define fun. Last time you said that, I ended up having to pay a few freshmen to scrub the training room floors for a week after the mess you created.”
Sly grins, his eyes glinting mischievously in the firelight. “Come on. That was ages ago. I’ve matured since then.”
Cam and I exchange a skeptical glance, but I can feel my resolve weakening. The alcohol buzzing through my system certainly isn’t helping my judgment.
“Alright,” I concede. “What do you have in mind?”
Sly glances around, then lowers his voice. “I overheard some of the staff talking about a restricted area in the old wing. My bet is that it’s where the Altair games trophy is stored. I say we go and take a sneak peek. You know, as motivation for our future win.”
Cam’s tone grows hesitant. “Sly, if we get caught—”
“—we’re fucked,” I finish for him, but I can feel a familiar thrill of excitement coursing through me. “But we won’t get caught, will we?”
Sly’s grin widens. “Not if we’re careful. Come on, guys. When’s the last time we did something truly wild?”
I take another swig from the bottle, liquid courage burning down my throat as I finish it off. “Alright, I’m in. Cam?”
He hesitates, his face a mix of concern and temptation. Finally, he sighs. “Fine. But if I end up picking up trash with Atlas every weekend for the rest of the year, I’m blaming you two.”
“Noted,” Sly says with a dip of his chin.
We don’t bother extinguishing the fire, ditching the party and making our way across the darkened campus, sticking to the shadows. The old wing of Altair’s main building looms before us, a hulking silhouette against the star-studded sky. As we approach, I can feel my heartrate pick up speed, a mix of adrenaline and alcohol fueling my reckless courage. Sly leads the way, his footsteps surprisingly silent on the cobblestone path. Cam follows close behind, his nervous energy palpable in the night air.
We reach the side entrance to the old wing, a weathered wooden door that’s seen better days.
Sly pulls a small metal tool from his pocket. “Stand watch,” he whispers to Cam and me as he begins to work on the lock.
I scan the area, my eyes straining in the dim light. The campus is eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the thick trees in the night breeze. Cam shifts nervously beside me, his breath coming in short, anxious puffs.
The old wing’s gothic architecture seems even more imposing in the darkness, but at least it stopped raining for the night.
A soft click breaks the silence, and Sly grins triumphantly. “We’re in,” he whispers, pushing the door open with a creak that seems to echo across the entire campus. We freeze, waiting for an alarm to sound or a professor to appear. But the night remains still.
Sly slips inside, and Cam and I follow, closing the door behind us. The musty smell of old books, age, and neglect assaults our senses. Our eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, revealing long hallways lined with dusty portraits and empty display cases.
The narrow hallway continues to stretch before us, shadows dancing on the walls as Sly strikes a match.
I scowl, as the joke of a flame catches nothing more than the dust motes in the air. “Remind me to get you a better light source for your birthday.”
“You got anything better? Didn’t think so,” he murmurs. “Now come on, maybe there’s a candle or something we can light in here.”
We creep forward, our footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor. The match sputters out, plunging us back into darkness. Sly curses under his breath and fumbles for another.
The fresh match’s feeble light casts eerie shadows on the walls, making the portraits seem to come alive, their eyes following our every move, or maybe it was the alcohol. I suppress a shudder, trying to focus on our mission.
“There,” Cam whispers, pointing to a small alcove. An old brass candlestick sits on a rickety table, its candle stub barely visible in the gloom.
Sly moves toward it, the match flickering dangerously close to his fingers. He manages to light it just as the match burns out, plunging us into momentary darkness before the new flame takes hold.
The candlelight reveals more of our surroundings—ornate woodwork, faded tapestries, and rows of locked cabinets and doors lining the walls. The air feels thick with secrets and forgotten Altair history.
“Remember what we’re here for,” I remind them.
Sly nods, holding the candle aloft as we continue down the hallway. The flickering light casts long silhouettes that seem to reach for us, like spectral fingers grasping at our ankles. I shake off the eerie feeling, focusing instead on the task at hand. Ashbourne’s weren’t easily scared.
Just then a loud clatter rings out behind me.
“Cam!” I threaten in a whisper-shout.
“It’s dark,” he complains, in way of apology. His face is sheepish in the dim light. He’s knocked over some metal object in the darkness, it’s shiny circular surface glinting in the light. We freeze, listening intently for any sign that we’ve been discovered.
Seconds tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. The old space creaks and groans around us, but there’s no sound of approaching footsteps or voices. We all collectively exhale.
Sly gestures with the candle, and we press on.
As we near the end of the passage, a faint glimmer catches my eye. I grab Sly’s arm, pointing to a glass case tucked into an alcove. Inside, barely visible in the dim candlelight, sits an ancient-looking trophy. The gold gleams in the darkness, catching the eye with its intricate, ornate engravings.
“That’s it,” Cam breathes, his eyes wide with excitement. “The Altair Cup. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”
I approach the case cautiously, my heart stuttering. This artifact has been around for centuries; each of our families’ names carved into the base as a reminder of who established the games. Prescott, Ashbourne, Oliveri, and Whitlock—three of the four powerful names have stood the test of time.
“Careful,” Sly warns as I reach for the case. “We don’t want to leave any signs of us being here.”
I dip my chin, acknowledging him.
Cam steps forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. “We should probably go before anyone realizes we’ve come here.”
As if in response to his words, a distant sound echoes through the hallway—footsteps, growing louder with each passing second.
Sly blows out the candle immediately casting us into darkness.
I force my breathing to shallow, straining my ears in the process. The footsteps grow louder, accompanied by the jingle of keys and a low murmur of voices.
“This way,” Cam hisses, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward a narrow alcove hidden behind a tapestry. Sly follows close behind, his movements silent as a shadow.
We squeeze into the tight space, pressing our backs against the cold stone wall. The tapestry falls back into place, concealing us, just as the door to the trophy room creaks open.
“…don’t see why you dragged me out of bed for this,” a gruff voice complains. “Students aren’t allowed back here.”
“I know, but I swear I heard something,” Chancellor Maxwell insists.
Mentally, I was calling Cam every expletive in the book for being so reckless earlier.
Her flashlight beam sweeps across the room, illuminating dusty shelves and gleaming trophies. “See? Nothing here,” the gruff voice—which I now recognize as belonging to Mr. Simmons, the groundskeeper—says impatiently.
“I suppose you’re right,” Maxwell concedes, but her tone is uncertain. “Still, I could have sworn…”
Her voice trails off as the beam of light settles on the trophy we’d been examining moments ago.
I exchange a quick glance with Sly, his eyes widening in the darkness, pupils like two full moons.
“I told you, nobody’s here. You worry too much.” Mr. Simmons’ gruff voice says, impatience clear in his tone after a few long seconds. “Probably just the wind or some old pipes settling.”
“Fine,” the Chancellor agrees, hesitating a bit more, before finally giving in.
As they start to leave, she pauses and bends down to pick up the item that Cam had knocked over. She glances back one final time before placing the silver ball back onto the shelf where it belongs.
“That was way too close,” Sly says as his shoulders relax in an exhale, his voice barely audible in the confined space after we’re sure they’re gone.
I’m about to berate him further for getting us to go on this stupid excursion when he holds up a hand, silencing me, and a growl slips past my teeth at the disrespect. I strain my ears, listening for any sign that the Chancellor or Mr. Simmons might have lingered. After a full minute of silence, Sly carefully pushes aside the tapestry and peers out.
“Coast is clear,” he mumbles, slipping out of our hiding spot.
We follow, our movements careful and deliberate. The trophy room seems different now, more ominous as we make it back outside. The stars twinkle above us, oblivious to our near miss. I shiver, not from the cool night air, but from the lingering adrenaline coursing through my veins.
“That was reckless,” Cam hisses at Sly as we make our way across the shadowy courtyard. “We could have been caught!”
Sly just grins, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “But we weren’t. And now we know.”
“Know what?” he snaps, his patience wearing thin.
“We know what we receive for our win.” Sly smiles cockily. “Come on, you can’t tell me that doesn’t get you amped for the games.”
I scoff, but I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me. The games. The whole reason we risked sneaking into the trophy room in the first place.
“It’s not just about winning,” I remind Sly, “it’s about reminding everyone else of our place versus theirs.” It was our responsibility to remind the people of Altair of our family’s dominance and their inferiority.
“Exactly,” he agrees, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “And now we’ve seen what we’re fighting for. Isn’t it great?”
“Whatever,” I say. “I’m heading back to my room.”
“You going back down to the beach?” Sly asks Cam. “Maybe your girl will still be there by the time we get back.”
“My girl for the night, you mean,” he corrects him.
“Yeah, yeah. So you coming with me, or what?”
Cam shrugs, his carefree attitude never wavering. “Sure, let’s go.”
I shoot Sly a warning look. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
He gives me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
As I make my way back to the dormitories, I can’t shake the uneasy feeling in my gut. Sly could be reckless, but he was smart…usually.
I reach into my pocket and grab my cigarettes, tapping at the box before I tug one out and light it, filling my lungs with the familiar smoke. The surprise visit from Chancellor Maxwell had put a damper on my buzz, but I was still feeling a bit tipsy.
I take another drag, watching the smoke curl into the night air. The campus is quiet, most students are down at the party along the shoreline, enjoying the start of their weekend.
As I walk along the cobblestone pathway, I can’t help but replay the events of the evening in my mind.
The trophy had been impressive, no doubt about it. It was perfect except for the name engraved right above mine.
Prescott.
Why was she still here? I thought after I saw her storm her way into Maxwell’s office earlier that she was going to call it quits after her little near-drowning incident.
I snort. I blame her father for not teaching her how to swim. Everyone here knew at least the basics. It was like knowing how to breathe, it’s basically a requirement to survive at Altair. But I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up banished.
Prescott . The name tastes bitter on my tongue, like an overripe fruit gone sour.
I needed her out of my sight to focus on what truly mattered—reclaiming our title in the games. But this morning, her cheeks flushed with fear as the water rose, consuming us in its grasp. I’d forced her deeper into the waves, the pull of the current threatening to swallow us whole.
God, she looked so fucking helpless—fragile, like a delicate flower being crushed under the weight of a storm, her vulnerability raw and undeniable. Just the thought of it made my pulse quicken. My body responded, hard and demanding, at the memory of her trapped beneath me, her fear so palpable.
Her mouth parted, desperate to say something—anything—but unable to make a sound. But her eyes... those hauntingly beautiful eyes stayed with me, their color reminiscent of golden nectar. They gazed up at me through thick lashes that fluttered in my direction.
Those damn eyes were going to fuck me over.
I kick a loose stone, watching it skitter across the uneven pavement outside her dormitory. The sound echoes off the wooden porch, matching the restless rhythm of my thoughts.
Prescott doesn’t belong here. She’s a danger, a liability. And yet Maxwell seems determined to keep her around. What does she see in her that I’m missing?
I pause, glancing up at the towering spires of her side of the dormitory. The moon casts long shadows across the dark room.
Before I can stop myself, I put out the cigarette and find myself climbing the stairs up to her room. I blame my foggy mind for leading me here, convincing myself that I just need to see the damage with my own eyes.
Her room is pitch black, save for a sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor.
Stepping inside, I’m struck by the plastic dust barriers and fans whirring, several running at high speed in the room. No doubt to try to dry out the space. My eyes shift to the ceiling, finding a spot above her bed a different color than the rest of her ceiling from where they’d fixed the damage.
I bite back my grin at the impressive size of the now-filled hole. It was nearly the length of her bed.
My eyes drift down to the bed itself, expecting to find Prescott curled up in a pathetic ball, nursing her bruised ego. But the mattress is empty, the sheets rumpled and pushed to one side.
I snort again, wondering how she’s enjoying her night in the supply closet.
The thought of Prescott huddled among mops and cleaning supplies brings a tinge of pride to my chest. Hope she’s not as afraid of rats as she is water.
I find my eyes once again checking out her space.
A crumpled piece of paper near the desk catches my attention and I stride across the room in three quick moves. Snatching it up, I smooth out the wrinkles, squinting to read in the dim light.
Idiots .
The single word scrawled in hasty handwriting in a large font.
Suddenly, I feel the slight tug of a thin, clear string attached to the paper.
The blood in my veins thins as a cascade of water crashes down from above, drenching me in an instant. I sputter and gasp as the deluge continues.
Fury rises in my chest, hot and overwhelming. How dare she? How dare this insignificant little nothing set a trap for me?
“She thinks this is funny?” I snarl to the empty room as I shake out my now soaked limbs.
I wipe my eyes as I start to walk away, but then I feel a pull on my ankle. Suddenly, one of the fans kick into high gear with a loud snap. A vat of glitter explodes in front of me like a bomb, coating everything in my path.
I catch my appearance in her full-length mirror. The glitter clings to my wet skin and clothes, transforming me into a sparkling, dripping mess.
I stumble backward, coughing and sputtering, my eyes burning from the tiny particles. As I try to regain my composure, I hear a soft click followed by a whirring sound.
The room is flooded with a flash of bright light. I blink rapidly, momentarily blinded, and realize with horror that I’m staring directly into the lens of a camera. It’s perched directly behind the fan that turned me into a walking, glittering rainbow.
“Prescott!” I roar, my voice echoing off the walls.
Rage boils inside me as I lunge for the camera and smash it into a million pieces, the remnants scattering across her floor.
The satisfaction of destroying the device is short-lived, my rage nowhere near sated.
A sinister smile spreads across my face, the corners of my mouth curling upward. Well, if Prescott felt the need to settle in, I knew how to make sure she stayed exactly where she was.