Sure.

  No problem.

  I want to strangle him. Instead, I ask an intelligent counter question, “Why five individuals? Why not three individual events and two relays?”

  He snorts. “That’s not a true challenge. You’re already noted as a likely candidate for the two hundred fly and four hundred individual medley. To round it out, you need three more. The Scorpio Society expects the best, Emma. Therefore, it’s five individual events. No negotiations allowed.”

  “I suppose you’ll tell me which events next?” I voice the query with a sarcastic lilt that makes him grin.

  “No. I’ll let you choose. Although, I don’t recommend breaststroke. Your legs don’t appreciate that stroke.” He spears his salad and brings a bite to his mouth.

  I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

  Five events. It’s something I’ve fantasized about for the future. As in four and a half years from now. It was part of my plan—get my feet wet at the Olympics after my freshman year, then train hard for the next four years with swimmers like Colton and achieve the dream at the next Olympics.

  In four and a half years, I repeat to myself. Not this year.

  My head is spinning.

  It’s an impossible task.

  He had to know that.

  “It’s not negotiable,” he says again, probably because he can see the doubt in my features.

  “Colton—”

  “We already broke one rule for your initiation by extending the timetable for your induction. Most initiates attend a ceremony at the end of the semester. But the trials are in June. So you’ll be inducted afterward, assuming you qualify.”

  “This is insane.”

  He shrugs. “Life is insane. But it’s also worth noting that I passed a similar test four years ago. Be thankful they’re not requiring five golds from you.”

  I gape at him. “You… five…?” I can’t even voice it. But I understand the implication. “The Olympics was your test.” The words leave my mouth on a breath, my voice barely audible.

  “Tests provide motivation,” he replies, meeting my gaze. “I don’t regret it. And to be honest, I miss the pressure. Swimming isn’t just about skill. It takes mental strength, too.”

  I don’t speak, but I silently agree. It’s easy to psych out before a race. Knowing a life may be on the line could provide a heck of a lot of motivation.

  Or destroy a mindset.

  “Eat,” he says softly. “That’s not a command, but a request. The sauce has a lot of vitamins in it from crushed vegetables and the meat is prime, too. It’ll help give you energy for practice in the morning, which we both know will be a killer because Coach Hawkins loves Saturday morning death sets.”

  I flinch. I’ve experienced a few of those infamous “death sets” this season. My body is not a fan.

  Colton grins at my reaction, then he finishes off his salad.

  Watching him eat serves no logical purpose whatsoever, so I join him and begrudgingly admit that the food is good.

  He definitely didn’t make this. It’s not that I doubt his skill but a man like Colton doesn’t have time to prepare something this intricate and delicious. It looks easy, but he’s right about the vegetables. They’re all cooked into the sauce… because it’s homemade from scratch.

  “Zarah.” He utters the name before scooping up penne into his mouth.

  I frown. “What?”

  He chews and swallows. “She’s my nutritionist and personal chef. She preps all my meals. She’s going to start prepping yours, too. That campus crap isn’t good enough. Not for your purposes, anyway. She’s already working on this week's meal plan.”

  He wrongly interprets my resounding silence as acceptance and continues into “our” plans.

  I’ll start training with him tomorrow. He’s already spoken to Coach Hawkins, phrasing it as an opportunity to foster upcoming Olympic talent.

  “Naturally, he agreed,” Colton adds before diving into my revised practice schedule.

  Which includes dropping one of my classes.

  “Having to run halfway across campus to make it to the natatorium on time is dangerous—winter in upstate New York can be brutal at times—and pushing your limits outside of the pool is unnecessarily exhausting, unless it’s cross-training related.”

  I’m struggling not to throw my plate at him.

  And he’s not done.

  He starts talking about “the rules.” No more late-night fight club visits. Absolutely no parties. No alcohol or drugs. No fraternization with men unless I’m properly protected—an act that is none of his damn business. And lastly, I have a curfew of ten o’clock every evening. Nine o’clock on meet nights.

  I’ve only finished half my food, something he notes and adds a lecture on the importance of healthy eating when training at the Olympic level.

  He speaks like I don’t know how to take proper care of myself.

  It’s insulting.

  I know how to cook healthy meals. I know what to eat. I’m well-versed in training. And I know about protection!

  My fingers are curled into tight fists in my lap, my instinct to punch him riding my spirit hard.

  He takes a sip of his water and calmly sets it down. “All right, Emma.” He meets my gaze. “Go ahead and yell. I can take it.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, my voice so sugary sweet that a peach tree may sprout right here in his damn dining room. “Maybe you need to instruct me on how to yell, too? I’m clearly not capable of much in your eyes, what with all the rules and all.”

  He sighs and the sound does nothing to cool my ire. “I’m here to help you, which I’ve said several times now. These rules are for your own benefit. I just want you to win. And I’m not talking about the society test. I’m talking about the trials. You have a lot of talent, Emma. I’ve seen you compete. You’re almost there. I want to push you those few steps more and watch you fly.”

  Okay, well that certainly does dampen my anger a little. Primarily because I can see the sincerity in his gaze.

  “I know you think I’m an ass. I won’t say I’m not. But I’m an ass who can help you. And when you think about it, you’ll realize this dream is what you already want anyway. The Scorpio Society is just a bonus.”

  “A bonus that you say will kill me if I don’t make the team in five individual events,” I mutter.

  “You’ll appreciate the additional motivation when you’re standing on the deck at the Olympics, waiting to swim your first of five events.”

  “Seven,” I counter, lifting my chin. “Relays.” I’m just correcting him because I can, not because I think it’s possible. But it is part of my lifelong dream.

  His dimples flash. “That’s the kind of confidence I want to see daily.”

  I shake my head. “This is—”

  “Insane,” he finishes for me. “Yes, you mentioned that.” He pushes his plate forward to clasp his hands on the table. “It’s getting late. How about you sleep on it and we will discuss more after practice.” It doesn’t sound like a question because it isn’t one.

  “Fine,” I agree, eager to have some space away from him. “Shall I call for a ride or are you taking me back to my dorm?”

  “Neither.” He pushes away from the table and stares me down. “You’re sleeping in the guest room.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “You prefer my bed?” His eyebrows shoot upward. “I mean, all right. But I sleep naked. And I’ll probably end up using you as a body pillow in the middle of the night.” His gaze heats as it dances over me. “Make that definitely.”

  I’m so stunned by the forward comment that I’m rendered speechless.

  Did Colton Kinsley just proposition me?

  He smirks. “It’s a joke, pledge. You’re sleeping in the guest room.”

  His words help me find my voice again. “I’m going back to my dorm.”

  “You’re not,” he insists. “You’re staying here and I’m driving you to practice tomorrow. You have everything you need in your locker. No dorm required.”

  “Okay.” I stand and walk right up to him, done with this intimidation game. “Maybe you didn’t hear me properly because it wasn’t up for debate. I’m not staying here.”

  He wraps his palm around the back of my neck and pulls me flush against him. I glare up at him, refusing to bend. But my heart is beating a mile a minute in my chest because I can feel every inch of his muscular form against mine.

  Just like I can smell his minty aftershave.

  Fresh and clean, I think, the scent reminding me of a welcoming shower and crisp sheets after a long grueling practice.

  “I don’t trust you to go back to your dorm tonight, Emma. Not after everything I’ve revealed. So you’re staying here. We’ll discuss next steps after practice.”

  He releases me as quickly as he grabbed me.

  “I’ve already set an alarm and locked all the doors from my phone. You can’t leave even if you tried. Now either follow me or sleep in the living room. Trust me, the guest room is more comfortable and it’s private.”

  5

  Emma

  I chose the guest room because it had a door with a lock.

  A lock Colton proved to have a key for when he woke me up this morning with a plate of egg whites and a protein shake.

  I usually go without breakfast before practice, but I begrudgingly have to admit his meal this morning adequately prepared me for Coach’s death sets.

  Of course, I’m still sore as hell at the end and just want to be left to die in the pool. I assume my floating position—the one I take after every practice—and close my eyes as everyone disappears into the locker rooms.

  Peace.

  Tranquility.

  Per—

  The water ripples around me as someone jumps into the lane beside me.

  I groan, irritated by the disturbance.

  Then I yelp as that disturbance grabs my ankle and yanks me under the water.

  I kick and sputter as I break the surface again, then glare at Colton. His lips curl in response. “Put these back on,” he says, handing me my cap and goggles. “We’re going to work on flip turns.”

  I growl at him in response. “Not today.”

  “Yes today.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Which means your walls will be extraordinarily sloppy.” He folds his arms over his chiseled chest. “That’s the best time to correct them.”

  “It’s the worst time to correct them because my focus is shot.”

  “Then re-harness your focus,” he returns, impatience thickening his accent. I wonder if he even notices the English inflection in his words. From what little I knew about his family, his father was American, so the accent either came from a nanny growing up or his mother.

  “Emma,” he snaps, looking pointedly at the cap and goggles in my hand. “My time is valuable and right now you’re wasting it.”

  My eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask for your help. Nor do I want it.”

  His jawbone flexes as he grits his teeth. “Are the articles wrong about you?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “The articles—the ones that declare you as an Olympic hopeful—are they wrong?”

  Now it’s my turn to clench my teeth. “Of course they’re not wrong.”

  “Then you want to go to the Olympics?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I say, waving my free hand at the pool.

  “Then why the fuck are we wasting time bickering when you could be swimming?” he demands.

  “Because this isn’t the way I want to do it,” I snap at him.

  “Then what way do you prefer?” His tone holds a sardonic twist to it, one that suggests he thinks I’m being petulant. And yeah, maybe I am. But I didn’t sign up for this; his family pulled me into it. Forgive me for not being over that yet.

  “I came here to learn and to train. Not to join a secret society.” I lower my voice on that last sentence. The natatorium walls have a way of echoing sometimes and I don’t want those words overheard.

  “I fail to see the difference,” he says. “You want to go to the Olympics. You want to train. The society just granted you exclusive access to someone who can help guide you there—me. So rather than disrespect fate, perhaps you should try accepting it.”

  “Against my will,” I toss back at him. “This is all against my will.”

  “To help you achieve your true desire!” He blows out a breath and runs a hand over his face, his patience disappearing down the drain of the pool. “I’m here to push you. Most people would see that as the gift that it is. Yes, there are high stakes involved. And yes, that adds pressure. But I’ve studied you, Emma Adrian, and you thrive best under pressure. So take this experience for what it is, and work with me to achieve greatness.”

  “At the expense of my coursework and for a prize I don’t even want.” I shouldn’t be arguing with him because his points are all valid. But I can’t get over the notion that this is being forced upon me rather than asked of me.

  “Once you’re in the Scorpio Society as an inducted member, your coursework won’t even matter. You have no idea what kind of resources will become available to you. Just… trust me to guide you, and achieve a dream few others even know exists.” There’s a subtle plea underlining his tone, one that tells me he genuinely wants me to accept this.

  “What’s in it for you?” I ask slowly. “You keep saying how this all benefits me, but what about you?”

  “I’m doing the work I was called to do,” he replies, his voice gruff. “You’re not the only one being forced into a situation you may not want, but I learned long ago to accept this life and do what’s requested of me when asked.”

  “So you don’t even want to be here either,” I translate.

  “There are a lot of things I don’t want. But I can think of a lot of tasks that are worse than being in the water and sharing the love of my sport with someone who understands my drive and enthusiasm.”

  A fair argument.

  Because I can think of a lot worse tasks, too.

  “What will be required of me when I join?” I ask him.

  He considers me for a long moment before replying, “That’s not for me to say. All I can tell you is your life will be forever changed, and no one who joins the Scorpio Society is ever sorry for it.”

  My eyes narrow. “That’s a canned response.” Which tells me he’s hiding something.

  He merely lifts a shoulder. “I don’t have a better one for you. I’m here to help you pass your trials. This is all about trust, dedication, and perseverance. The rest isn’t about us or your tests.”

  “Trust, dedication, and perseverance,” I repeat, arching a brow. “Sounds very specific.”

  “Those are the pillars chosen for your test, the first one being to trust me to guide you.” He gives me a look as he says it, then adds, “It’s not going very well so far.”

  “I wonder why that is?” I counter.

  “Because you’re being stubborn?” he suggests. “You’re choosing to focus on the wrong parts of this equation?” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you realize how many swimmers—hell, how many people in general—would kill for this opportunity? Instead, you’ve just wasted almost ten minutes of my time by arguing with me over it.”

  “Comments like that don’t make me want to work with you.”

  He snorts. “Conversations like this don’t make me want to coach you, either.”

  I glare at him.

  He just stares right back, unfazed.

  The soothing swish of water is the only sound around us, the filters of the pool working to cleanse and replenish in a rhythmic beat.

  It’s a sound I love, one I’ve always craved. Because it makes me feel like I’m home and where I belong.

  Colton Kinsley has infiltrated that home and disturbed me in his wake. All because of a society I’ve never heard of, one that apparently wants me to join.

  What a heavy burden for him to bear—this secret that he’s lived with all his life. Every interview, every meet, every race, this weighs on him.

  Five Olympic gold medals achieved for said society. Not for himself, but to prove his worth. “What were your pillars?” I wonder out loud.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Loyalty, dedication, and perseverance.”

  “Loyalty to who?”

  “My family legacy,” he replies. “To live up to the Kinsley name and achieve greatness.”

  “Does it bother you?” I ask, my tone a little less hostile and more curious now. Seeing the glimmer in his dark gaze has me clarifying, “Does it bother you that you won five gold medals to satisfy an organization you were essentially born into?”

  “Not essentially, I was born into it. And no, it doesn’t. Because I didn’t win those medals for the Scorpio Society. I won them for myself. The rest is just a bonus.”

  He unfolds his arms to move his palms through the water. At over six feet in height, he can easily stand in this part of the pool. It’s only five-and-a-half feet deep here. The deep end would require him to scull like that, but not here. Still, he moves his hands like one would when treading water.

  “I’m trying to be patient, Emma,” he continues softly. “It doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m focused. My drive is what keeps me moving, and I’m not used to being questioned repetitively. I get this is all new to you, but at the end of the day, it’s all meant to encourage you to reach your goals. You enrolled at Stonewall for a reason. You accepted the scholarship for a reason. You’re listed as an Olympic hopeful in all the national and international swimming articles for a reason.”

  I swallow, his words resonating deep within my soul.

  The reason is because I want this, I think. I’ve always wanted this.

  “Why let this detail be the reason you fail?” he continues. “Because it’s against your will? Because it’s not something you signed up for? We’re athletes. We tackle obstacles. We work hard and continue to work hard no matter what’s set in our path. Why is this so different? Why disregard a clear opportunity that’s set to help you succeed?”

  I’m not sure how to answer that.

 

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