Page 44 of Nothing But Air

But enough.

He aborted the dynamic move and scrambled for the nearest handhold. His fingers closed around stone that crumbled under pressure.

Panic flared in his chest.

He slammed his other hand onto a better hold. His feet scraped against the rock face—one found a small edge, the other dangled in empty air.

Stuck. Halfway through a sequence he couldn’t complete. Unable to go up or down without risking a fall.

“Teague?” Eden’s voice drifted up, tight with concern.

“I’m good. Just reassessing.”

A lie. His muscles were already burning. Every second increased the risk of something giving out completely.

Across the gap, Kyle had stopped climbing to watch. Perfect. An audience for his failure.

“Need a hand, Hamilton?” Kyle’s voice carried across the distance. “Or maybe a ladder?”

“That’s enough, Kyle.” Sierra’s voice, surprisingly sharp.

Teague tried to shift his weight. His right foot slipped, sending a shower of rocks cascading down. He heard Eden’s sharp intake of breath. Felt the rope go taut as she prepared to catch a fall.

“The rock’s loose.” His voice came out strained. “The whole section’s compromised. I can’t?—”

He couldn’t finish.

Couldn’t admit out loud that he was trapped. That his rush to win had put him exactly where Eden had warned him he’d end up.

“Teague.” Eden’s voice was calm. Professional. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling under your hands and feet. Don’t move. Just describe it.”

His jaw clenched. Accepting help meant admitting he’d screwed up. Meant proving Eden right in front of everyone.

But his muscles were shaking now. The hold under his right foot shifted again—a millimeter, maybe less—but enough to send fresh adrenaline spiking through his system.

He was out of options.

“Left hand is solid. Right hand is barely more than a fingerhold.” His voice was tight. Strained. “Left foot has a small perch but is stable for now, but there’s pressure building. Right foot is the biggest problem—feels like the rock is delaminating.”

“Your last anchor?”

He glanced down. Too far. She’d been right about that too. “It’ll catch me, but not before I hit the wall. Hard.”

A pause. Then, “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

Eden’s voice was not just calm, but commanding. The voice of someone who’d been in situations like this before. Who knew how to think when everything was falling apart. “Can you get a push on your right foot?”

“Maybe.”

“There’s a hold about eight inches above your left hand. Solid sandstone—I can see the color difference from here. If you can get a good push, then you can reach it and then redistribute your weight and traverse right to the stable section.”

“I can’t see it.”

“I can. Trust me.”

Four words. Simple. Loaded with everything that had passed between them—every argument, every moment of tension, every time he’d pushed her away.

Did he trust her?