The Bleak Beginning (Altair University #1)

19. Alex

Chapter 19

Alex

I glance 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.

I hesitate, weighing my options. “I was exploring,” I finally say, opting for a vague half-truth he didn’t deserve.

“You went in there because you were considering trying to teach yourself how to swim,” he says nonchalantly, and my mouth almost drops open at how easily he guessed my intentions.

How did he know? Had he been watching me? A shudder runs through me, this time tinged with unease.

“What’s it to you?” I snap, drawing my arms close. “I didn’t realize you were so invested in my extracurricular activities. I didn't know you found me so interesting.”

His eyes flash, his muscles stiffening along his biceps. Had I struck some sort of nerve?

“I don’t,” he says flatly. “But if you’re planning on drowning yourself again, I’d rather not be the one to fish your corpse out of the pool.”

I hate how his words get under my skin, considering who it’s coming from.

“I’m not going to drown,” I retort.

“Really?” His eyebrow arches skeptically, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk that I find both alluring and maddening. “Because a few weeks ago, you sure proved you’d sink like a stone.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Swimming isn’t something you can just pick up overnight. It takes time, practice…and a teacher who knows what they’re doing.”

“What I do with my time is none of your business,” I snap.

“But it is my business, Prescott. Everything that happens in this school that involves you is my business.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, trying to keep my voice steady.

Bishop’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with something I can’t quite place. “It means exactly what I said. I can’t allow your family to screw things up for the rest of us again.”

Gah! I was so sick of this.

“What did my family honestly do that was so wrong?” I say, genuinely over this and him. I didn’t want to play in the stupid Altair games.

He takes a step closer, invading my personal space. His distinctive scent of cigarette smoke, one that I've come to associate with him, fills the air around me. “Your father betrayed his own kind. He abandoned his team on the very last day of the games,” he says. “He didn’t show, choosing your mother over us. Our families were left to deal with the embarrassment, while your father ran off with your whore of a mother.”

I flinch, and I know he catches it, but it’s not for the reason he thinks.

It’s not because he’s gotten to me by insulting my mother. It’s because I had no idea about the specifics of what happened. If what he’s saying is true, then my father really did betray the other Legacies, choosing my mother over them, for whatever reason.

“And in that year, how many…”

“All four,” he spits out venomously. “Our parents were the last to experience all four Legacy families in one class.” His voice drips with bitterness and resentment.

I take a step back, needing to put some distance between us. Bishop’s intensity is overwhelming, and I can’t think straight with him so close.

“I…I didn’t know,” I admit quietly, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “My dad never told me about any of this.” I hadn’t even realized the weight my last name carried until I arrived at this university.

Something flickers in Bishop’s eyes—surprise, maybe—before his expression hardens again. “Of course he didn’t. He was too busy running away from his responsibilities and playing happy family, leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces.”

I wince again. My childhood was anything but happy.

I want to defend my family’s name, to argue in our defense that there must be more to the story, but I can’t. The truth is, I don’t know enough to contradict what Bishop’s just said. And that realization hurts more than any insult he could throw at me.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Look, I get that you’re angry. But I’m not my father. I didn’t even know about any of this until now. You can’t hold me responsible for something that happened before I was born.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes reluctantly. “But you’re here now. And your presence threatens everything our families have worked to rebuild.”

“I didn’t choose to be born into this legacy . And I certainly didn’t decide to come to Altair by my own choice.” But here I am, feeling like a misfit in a place that is supposed to be my new home. All I want is to be left alone, forgotten in my own little corner.

His eyes flash. “You don’t fit here, Prescott. You’re an outsider, a reminder of everything that went wrong. Your very existence is a threat to the delicate balance we’ve worked to maintain.”

“What do you want from me, then? Do you expect me to just pack up and leave? Because that’s not happening, so why can’t you just pretend I don’t exist for the next few years?”

He takes a step closer, closing the distance I’d tried to create.

“Pretend you don’t exist?” Bishop’s voice is low, almost a growl. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just waltz in here and expect me to ignore you. How would that reflect on me? I would look weak. Pathetic…just like you.”

I instinctively try to take another step back, but I find myself pressed against the unforgiving wall of the building. Bishop places his hands on either side of my head, effectively trapping me between his strong arms and the unyielding surface behind me. My heart races as the heat from his body radiates toward mine, creating an intimate cocoon between us.

“The Legacy families have rules, traditions,” he continues, his face inches from mine. “And whether you like it or not, your father betrayed them all. So, no. You can’t escape them. You can’t escape us. Escape me. ”

I feel this thing—whatever it was—pulsing between us. He despises me, loathes every fiber of my being for the actions of my father and how they impacted him and the other Legacies.

And yet…

I can’t tell if I want him to back off or if I want him to close the gap completely.

His gaze locks onto mine, a challenge in his eyes, daring me to be bold. I feel the heat rising between us, suffocating and undeniable. My heart races, but I don’t step back. Instead, I force myself to meet him head-on.

“And what if I don’t want to?” I say, my voice trembling but defiant. “What if I don’t want to escape you?” I whisper the words, barely a breath between us, and I feel them settle in the charged space between us like a spark ready to ignite.

His breath hitches for just a moment, and I see it—the crack in his mask. It’s fleeting, but it's there. His eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up, a mixture of anger and something... else... swirling beneath the surface. The tension between us thickens, almost suffocating.

“What do you want then?” he asks, his voice barely more than a low rasp, the desperation leaking through his words. “Right now, what do you want, Prescott?”

The question hangs in the air like a dare. I can almost feel the tug of it, pulling me closer, making it harder to remember everything that’s been between us—the hatred, the past, the family ties that bind us in this impossible tension.

I swallow, my mind spinning, my pulse loud in my chest.

He leans in slightly, his breath mingling with mine, and I feel that pull again. He’s close enough now that I could feel the heat of his skin, the hardness of his body, and the raw intensity radiating from him. For one heartbeat, I almost think he’s going to kiss me, and I’d be lying if I said I’d refuse him.

“Words, Prescott. Use your words,” he growls, his voice rough, almost pleading, but there's no mistaking the force behind it. It's a demand, as if he's trying to control whatever is happening between us.

I can feel his hesitation, his struggle. It’s there, just under the surface. He’s holding back—but for how much longer?

“Tell me what you need, troublemaker.” His voice is strained, the words clipped, but beneath them, I can hear frustration—like he’s barely holding on. His forehead brushes against mine, and I feel his breath quicken, his chest rising and falling with the weight of whatever battle rages inside him. The same battle is happening inside of me, too.

I release a shaky breath, my mouth parting in the silence between us. His eyes darken as they flicker to my lips, and I catch the subtle twitch of his mouth—like he’s frustrated by my hesitation, like he’s desperate.

But Bishop doesn’t want me like that. He’s made it clear from the start where we stand.

But...

It’s how he’s looking at me now, like I hold all the cards, and he hates that— that is what has me confused. Bishop doesn’t want to kiss me. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Could he?

The seconds stretch on endlessly, an urgent need pulsing between my thighs the longer we stay like this. His penetrating gaze lingers on me, studying me with a hunger that makes my body ache.

His gaze flickers down to my lips again, and I swear I can feel him resisting the urge to close that last inch of space between us. But then, with a sharp intake of breath, he pulls back—just a fraction—but enough to break the spell.

Without warning, he violently grabs the paper I’d completely forgotten was still in my hand. His gaze shifts off me and darts over the map only long enough to see what he’s looking at. “This map is incorrect. The new natatorium was built here last year,” he says, pointing to a speck on the map.

I can only nod in response, too overwhelmed by everything that’s happening. His anger. His closeness. His presence towering over me, making me feel small and helpless. And then there’s learning about the betrayal of my family, twisting like a knife in my chest.

He finally shoves himself off the wall, setting me free from the cage of his overpowering presence.

“The Legacy families have long memories, and we don’t forgive easily. Or in your case. Ever,” he concludes before storming off into the shadows where he belongs.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m just asking to be left alone,” I holler back, regardless if he can hear me or not. But deep down, I can’t help but wonder why our encounter felt like it ended too soon. The lingering electricity between us only adds to the confusion and intensity of this bizarre moment. My only desire when I agreed to attend this university was to graduate, but now it was to escape from this world of tradition and Legacy families. But with Bishop Ashbourne forcing his way inside my every space, that may never be possible.

This new pool complex is far nicer than the old one, based on exterior alone. The domed structure resembles a layer cake, with six sides and a smaller matching layer on top. Glass arched doors and windows adorn both tiers of the building.

The inside is as spectacular as the outside. It’s spacious, with an arched ceiling with large windows that bring in natural light. In the center, there was a pool with lanes created by ropes extending from one end to the other. I gaze up and notice a second-level mezzanine with built-in seating, most likely meant for spectators to view the activities below.

A whistle sounds, and my head snaps in the direction of the noise.

A stern voice reverberates through the room. “This is a closed practice.” The deep voice bounces off the walls as if looking for a way to escape.

“Chill, coach,” Sylvester says, eating up the small distance between us like it’s nothing and tugging himself up and out of the water.

Must be nice.

His blond hair sticks to his forehead as he shakes his head, droplets of water flying in every direction. I try not to stare at his toned physique, but it’s hard not to notice the way his muscles ripple with each movement.

I mean, I have eyes, for crying out loud, and they’re very nice looking muscles. I also blame my ogling on the confusing interaction I’d just had with Bishop outside the old natatorium.

Honestly, what was that even about?

“She’s with me,” Sylvester explains to the coach, throwing a casual arm around my shoulders. I stiffen at the contact, acutely aware of his damp skin against mine.

Why is a Legacy touching me? And more importantly is he being…nice?

His friend Bishop could learn a lesson or two from him in that department.

The coach’s stern expression softens slightly, but his eyes remain narrowed. “Fine. You get two minutes and then she has to leave.”

Sylvester nods, then turns to me with a grin.

“Sorry about Coach Zeller. He can be a bit intense during practice. He’s actually a big softie once you get to know him.” Sylvester winks, and I feel my cheeks flush despite myself.

This is not the Sylvester I’m used to seeing in the hallways of Altair, all swagger and arrogance. Here, dripping wet and smelling of chlorine, he seems almost…approachable.

I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have barged in on your practice anyway.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. So what brings you to my humble aquatic abode?” He gestures grandly around the pool complex, water still dripping from his arm.

This is so strange.

“Woah, do we have some fresh meat trying out for the team?” a guy with equally damp hair says, strolling over with a towel over his shoulder. “You’re clearly a ten, even in a one-piece, sweetheart,” he comments stopping beside us.

My mouth flattens to a line. Was that supposed to be a compliment?

“She doesn’t swim,” Sylvester jumps to answer for me, almost too quickly.

Okay, weird.

“So you’re not a swimmer. What do you like to do?” the new guy asks, his eyes roaming over me with unabashed interest.

I shift uncomfortably under his gaze, acutely aware of Sylvester’s arm still draped across my shoulders, and I swear I must be going crazy because I feel his arm tighten slightly at this guy’s appraisal of me. “I, uh…I’m more into plants. Botany.”

“Smart and beautiful,” the guy says with a wolfish grin. “A deadly combination.”

Okay, this time I know I’m not going insane. Sylvester’s arm tightens around me. “Back off, Christopher,” he says, his tone light but with an undercurrent of…something else. “She’s not interested.”

What is going on right now? First Bishop and now Sylvester?

Christopher holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, no harm in asking, right?” He winks at me. “You said you’re into plants, right? I too, am a fan of a certain type of green—”

“Alex is not going to help you organize your pot collection,” Sylvester cuts in abruptly. Was he actually angry right now?

I step out of his hold, feeling a sudden need to create some distance between us. The air feels charged, thick with a tension I can’t quite understand.

“Look, I appreciate the…welcome,” I say, glancing between Sylvester and Christopher. “But I should really get going. I don’t want to interrupt your practice.”

Sylvester’s expression shifts, a flicker of something—disappointment?—crossing his face “Right, of course. Coach said two minutes.”

I nod, backing away slowly. “Thanks for…um, everything.”

As I turn to leave, I hear Christopher’s voice behind me. “Hey, plant girl! If you ever want to see my collection, just let me know.”

I quicken my pace, pushing through the heavy doors of the pool complex and out into the cool evening air. Because what the hell just happened back there?

“Dude. You doing okay?” Aubrey asks.

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of her voice. I’d been so caught up in my own thoughts, I hadn’t even noticed her coming up from the courtyard.

I blink, realizing I must look as flustered as I feel. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just had a weird…interaction in there.” There was no way I was bringing up the Bishop issue, so I go with the safer option.

Aubrey raises an eyebrow. “Weird how? Did one of those meathead swimmers try something?”

I shake my head. “No, not exactly. It was just…unexpected.” I pause, unsure how to explain the bizarre encounter. “You know Sylvester Oliveri, right? The Legacy?”

Aubrey snorts. “Who doesn’t? Mr. Golden Boy himself.”

“Well, he was actually…nice to me in there. Like, weirdly nice.”

Aubrey’s eyes widen. “Sylvester? Nice to you? Are we talking about the same person?”

I nod, still trying to process it myself. “I know, right?”

“Yeah, well, I suppose miracles can happen,” Aubrey mutters, her tone dripping with disbelief. “But I’m not buying it. Not for a second.”

“Miracles? Please.” Aubrey's smirk fades as Ophelia saunters up, her posture as perfect as her snark. “Next you’ll say he's been handing out puppies and rainbows.”

Where had she come from?

I shift my footing to see Ophelia standing beside us, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her bag before digging inside. She doesn’t even look up as she continues, “No offense, of course. It’s just the natural order of things.”

“Gee, thanks for that insight, Ophelia,” Aubrey says, crossing her eyes. “Come to bother us because your boyfriend Bishop doesn’t want to bother with you?”

Ophelia’s eyes narrow at Aubrey’s jab, but her saccharine smile remains firmly in place. “Aubrey, always so quick with the comebacks. It’s adorable, really.” She turns her attention to me, her gaze sharp despite her sugary tone. “I’m just looking out for our new friend. Wouldn’t want Alex getting any…misguided ideas about how things run around here.”

“I am perfectly capable of forming my own opinions, and maybe if you had a real boyfriend, you wouldn’t have to take your frustrations out on us,” I interject. I’m not about to let Ophelia talk about me like I’m not even here.

Her brows pinch, but she maintains her cool composure. “You know nothing about my relationship. But since you brought it up, Bishop and I are perfectly happy.” She pulls out a compact mirror, checking her reflection as she speaks. “Unlike some people, I don’t need to obsess over every little interaction with the popular crowd.”

My lips part, ready with a comeback, but before I can retort, Aubrey steps in front of me, her stance protective. “Why don’t you take your ‘happiness’ and your condescension somewhere else? We’re not interested.”

Ophelia snaps her compact shut, her smile tightening. “Fine. I was just trying to help. But clearly, some people can’t handle a little friendly advice.” She turns on her heel, her long hair swishing behind her as she struts away.

“I swear, she’s the reason they invented earplugs,” Aubrey grumbles once she’s out of earshot.

“Yeah, well maybe if we’re lucky, when she’s picking up trash with Atlas this weekend, she’ll swallow some plastic.”

“I heard about that! Three full Saturdays.” She lets out a low whistle. “She must have really upset Atlas. That guy is like the chillest professor we have.”

I was beginning to understand this about him. Atlas had a certain modern-day, save the planet, hippie vibe about him.

“Hey, wanna swing by the dining hall with me? Fending off Altair’s mean girl really works up an appetite.”

“Sure,” I reply, grateful for the distraction.

As we make our way to the dining hall, I can’t help but wonder about the dynamics at play here. Ophelia’s words, though coated in sugar, had a sharp edge to them. Sylvester actually treated me like a normal human being. Bishop, well, being Bishop.

“So,” I begin, glancing sideways at Aubrey. “Can someone finally explain to me why we have giant pine trees inside the dining hall?” I ask, deciding not to think too much about all the weirdness.

Lighthearted. Easy. That’s what I was after.

“That one’s simple. Altair believes in working with the elements, not overpowering them. That’s why our buildings are designed with such expansive windows.”

I nod, taking in this information as we approach the doors of the dining hall. The trees inside seem to stretch endlessly upward, their branches brushing against the high ceiling.

“But doesn’t that make it, I don’t know, hard to maintain? Or keep clean?” I ask, pushing open the door and feeling a rush of air mixed with the scent of pine.

Aubrey laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Oh, absolutely. But that’s part of the charm, or so they say. Plus, it gives our groundskeeper something to do during the winter months.”

Oh. “Well, that’s good, I guess.”

Aubrey chuckles. “It’s kind of cool, really. The trees are actually part of the building’s air filtration system. Plus, they help regulate temperature and humidity.”

Wow…that was actually pretty impressive.

I look up at the towering pines with newfound appreciation. I guess Altair really does take being environmentally friendly seriously. How ironic for a university that doesn’t have a club at all related to it or plants of any variety.

Yes, I am still upset about it.

As we grab some food, Aubrey continues to share more about Altair, and I listen intently, intrigued by the distinct features of this school that I had never heard of before. By the time we finish our meals, she’s still rambling on, but I’m completely engrossed and don’t mind at all. Surprisingly, this place doesn’t seem terrible, at least from her point of view.