Page 86 of Crush
The small, quiet crowd naturally falls in line behind me, Jaxon at my back. No one talks. The ocean makes most of the noise for us, crashing against the cliffs and craggy rocks, petulant over the velvet blanket of night being thrown upon it when it doesn’t want to go to sleep yet.
A trapdoor exists to the east of the tennis courts behind the school. We weave between the courts, its clay turf sparkling with frost under the security lights. As soon as we clear them, I throw the cloak over my shoulders, the heavy fabric kicking against my legs until the wind billows it behind me.
Winter curls its bony finger, beckoning the academy into its icy grip. Soon, within weeks, snow will cloak the castle and silence the cantankerous water down below.
I stop at the trapdoor, buried in overgrown grass and weeds like forgotten driftwood. Turning, I ask the group, “We all here?”
Jaxon does the count. When finished, he nods his head.
Grabbing the iron circle in the middle of the splintering, warped wood, I heave until one half of it groans open, then let it fall heavily to the ground. Stepping aside, I tell the freshmen to go down first.
The new initiates shuffle their feet, one or two edging backward as if they can disappear among the other black cloaks. I jerk my chin at Jaxon, and he hauls the most fearful ones forward by their collars. I take over and shove them down the first few steps.
Is it necessary they be the initial ones descending into the catacombs? No, but it’s fucking entertaining to see them tremble and hear their whimpers. God knows I’m in need of some outside entertainment.
I lift my head to the stragglers. “Are the rest of you so afraid to enter the Noble lair?”
A chorus of, “No, sir,” pops up.
Good. At least the challenges are doing one thing right—conditioning these boys into understanding who’s boss.
I can’t say the same for the Virtues. Aurora’s grip is loose, at best, on her most stubborn initiates. My punishment against her had lasting negative effects, with many of her initiates obeying her with obvious reluctance, now that they’ve seen she’s so easily cowed.
If I were Aurora, I’d show them who they’re fucking with when they question my orders. She will, too, eventually. Once she gets over her crisis of vanity and realizes the importance of leadership over hair.
But the most stubborn one … the girl who questioned Aurora even before her trip to the Thorne Salon … she doesn’t bow.
I’ve deliberately neglected her. My father’s actions at the pool—his agreement with Zeke, for Christ’s sake—hit me too close for comfort. I’ve enjoyed the push and pull of Ember’s and my twisted relationship, using the power to kill her or fuck her to meet my own needs. My father’s actions prove that I was too distracted and didn’t consider his motives, nor did I corner her enough to figure out what the hell Ember was up to when I wasn’t watching her.
And I watch her a lot.
Zeke Aiden. She trusted him more than me. My body absolutely thrums with outrage at the vision of them holding hands as they step through the painting into my home. Ember led Zeke through a shared secret tunnel between the Weatherbys and the Briars. Divulged her suspicions to him about Savannah and asked him to help her. Theories she never thought to bring up with the guy she’s most intimate with—who licks her pussy and jerks off on her, branding her as his. Mine.
I’d always mutated Ember’s hate for me into satisfying fucks. Little did I know she’d saved tiny morsels of it to do some digging on the Briars when I finished going down on her.
Weakness comes in all forms. Aurora and I share in that, at least.
“Bro? You going in?”
Jaxon’s question returns me to the surface of my thoughts. The recruits and veterans have all descended. It’s just him and me at the top.
I motion for him to go first, then follow, pulling the trapdoor shut behind me with a whine of hinges.
The smarter Nobles raise their phones as flashlights. I can make this trip in my sleep, predicting every crack and loose stone before I step, and make it to the front of the line in less than five seconds.
“Follow me,” I say to the younger ones up front. They do.
Amazing, considering I’ve led them through cliff dives, burials four feet deep, and locked cellars with floors coated in broken wine bottles when they must get to the key barefoot, yet they still follow, bolstered by the glow of being a Noble member and all the privileges attached to it.
The trip to the catacombs below the school has a lot of sharp corners, which I fail to tell the recruits when I take sharp rights and lefts. Their oofs and yelps give me a pleasant idea: have them make their way back to the trapdoor without the aid of their phones once this meeting is over.
A wide archway opens up fifteen feet ahead, lit from the inside by sconces and additional members holding firelit torches when we round the corner. These are the senior peerage, awaiting the arrival of the recruits, so we can start the emergency, top secret chat.
My father called this meeting of all Winthorpe Nobles. A rarity since he mainly deals with alumni and the more powerful folk out in the world.
Even the fresh initiates can figure out why we’re here, though. Ember’s “overdose” hit every Noble ear soon after it occurred. Not only does it cast a dire lesson on the Weatherbys but it also acts as a convenient forewarning to those who try to go against the Societies, and I believe quite a few of my new recruits almost pissed their pants at the news.
I assume this meeting is an extension of that warning, but I approach the center with caution. I’ve paid for my assumptions before.