Page 93 of Crush

“There’s a time limit,” Damion says, amusement obvious in his voice as he regards us. “The previous Noble completed this in forty-five minutes. I expect you to do it in thirty.”

I work my jaw. “And if I don’t?”

“Why, then, you fail,” Damion utters it as if it’s obvious. “You are no longer a Virtue since you can no longer prove you’re above basic skill. Nor do you receive the escape I last offered you since you rejected it so fastidiously.” Damion folds his arms within his cloak. “You will remain with Malcolm, as much a failure as he is. No privileges, no membership, no access to my son, no future. Are you willing to take this on, Miss Weatherby? I expect not. No sane girl would.”

I glare at him through his entire pompous speech. In answer, I shove my cloak off, my body vibrating with anger. I’m not in a swimsuit—how could I be without any explanation as to my challenge, but I’m thankful for the lack of spandex.

It’s the beginning of November. The water will be fucking freezing.

“Is that what you’ll be wearing during this expedition?” Damion’s question comes out arrogant and mocking. “If anything, perhaps this excursion will teach you a lesson. Always come prepared for any outcome.”

I’m about to retort that I wasn’t aware becoming a Virtue also meant preparing as a Boy Scout in wilderness camp, but Jaxon clears his throat, drawing my attention.

I glance over at him, noticing the way he’s inconspicuously nudging my backpack closer with his foot.

Frowning, I unzip it. Unfamiliar fabric expands through the opening. I didn’t pack this. I grab it, and the feel immediately offers a clue. A wetsuit. The only time Jaxon could’ve slipped it in unnoticed was when I was putting on the Virtue cloak.

He’s still looking out for me.

Who it is that I mean, I leave as a deliberate mystery in my head.

I’m about to send Jaxon a grateful smile but stop myself just in time. He could get in serious trouble if Damion found out he helped me.

I give a bright smile to Damion instead. “Looks like I’ve come prepared with just the thing. A thermal-regulated hooded winter wetsuit.”

It’s a mouthful I’m happy to spit in his face.

Deep, indented frown lines frame Damion’s lips. But he’s forced to utter, “Very well,” gesturing for me to hurry up.

Modesty long forgotten, I strip to my T-shirt and the bicycle shorts I’m wearing under my uniform, then slip into the wetsuit. It’s the type of full suit surfers wear when they’re aiming for waters like Iceland or Norway. There’s no way I could complete this challenge without it. It means I’ll owe a certain someone a big favor in the future, but right now, I can’t care about that. I have to win.

While stuffing my hair under the tight, neoprene hood, Jaxon zips me up.

Damion’s wandered closer to the heat of the torch, leaving Jaxon and me close to the shoreline. As he pulls at the zipper, I whisper, “Tell me the truth about Thorne. Please. Is he all right?”

“No,” Jaxon mutters near my ear. “He’s in bad shape. You have to complete this challenge for the both of you.”

My stomach plunges with dread. Thorne’s not okay.

What has Damion done to him? The same as Savannah? Can I trust Jaxon to be telling the truth? Jaxon led me here for a guaranteed winter drowning, and I just watched him be patted on the back by Damion for his loyalty.

I’m about to ask Jaxon how completing this challenge would help Thorne, but Jaxon clutches my shoulders, then gently pushes me forward.

I crane my neck to see him as I step into the icy tide. “Thank you for the suit.”

“Wasn’t me. I’ve been holding on to it until it came in handy, though.”

“Are you ready?” Damion calls. “I’m getting rather fidgety, and nobody likes a bored king.”

“Yes. Fine!” I reply, casting Jaxon one last curious look before entering the frigid water.

It leaks through my wetsuit instantly, the sub-zero temperature seeming to twang against my very bones.

Can I really do this? Quivering with nerves, my breaths coming out fast, I force my body to submerge.

At least my audience is small. Aurora isn’t watching me. Belle and Delaney aren’t snickering beside her. Thorne isn’t casting his white-fire gaze across the brackish waters to target my head.

I must try. For Thorne, for Savannah, for Malcolm. For me. We’re all victims of Damion, and it’s about time his weakness for underestimating people is proven.