Page 13 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Viper

T he icy spray of the shower hits my chest like a punch, but it does fuck all to cool the fire raging in my blood. I slam my palm against the cold, wet tiles, the sting a welcome distraction from her, sprawled on the bed, daring me to take her.

Fucking hell. She almost broke me.

For a split second, when she pulled my head down and challenged me to do it, I almost lost control. Every instinct screamed at me to rip that dress off, to bury myself so deep inside her she wouldn’t know where she ended, and I began. To prove she was mine.

But that’s what she wanted. That’s how she wins. By making me lose my head. My control. I never lose control. I can’t. In my world, it’s a death sentence.

I let the cold water run over my face, my breath coming in ragged pants.

This isn’t just about fucking her. This is about survival.

Hers and mine. Those two pricks downstairs, Locke and Warrick, they’re circling, and they aren’t the only ones.

That little bitch who thought she could touch me, and I’m willing to bet many more will come out of the woodwork soon enough.

But I am the only thing standing between her and a fucking bullet. She needs to fear me. She needs to obey me. She needs to understand that I am in control, not her, and not them. Taking her pleasure away was the only move I had left. A cruel, necessary lesson.

I turn my face back into the spray, washing the scent of her from my skin. It doesn’t work. She’s under my skin now, a fever I can’t sweat out. This year is going to be a special kind of hell.

My cock is granite-hard, aching with a need so fucking primal it’s a physical pain. I can feel her gaze on me, and I grip my cock, turning with it in my hand. I tug on it, using my other hand to wash away the water droplets from the shower door so she can see me.

She sits up, her gaze fixed on me as I jerk off with her pretty cunt in my imagination as my porn.

Her eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted.

The defiance is gone, replaced by a raw, hungry fascination that makes my blood spike.

I hold her gaze, stroking myself harder, faster.

This isn’t for my pleasure; it’s for her torment.

A demonstration. This is what you do to me. This is what I can deny you.

I imagine my hand tangled in her blonde hair, my cock ramming into her wet cunt, her screams echoing off these ancient stone walls.

My groan is a low, guttural sound, ripped from my throat as I pump my cock until my cum splatters against the glass, a crude testament to what she’s doing to me.

My eyes never leave hers. I want her to see it all. I want her to know this was for her.

The climax does little to ease the tension coiling in my gut. It only makes me want the real thing more. It makes me want her more.

I rinse off quickly, turning my back on her as I shut off the water. I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing any weakness. I grab a towel, wrap it low around my hips, and step out of the shower.

She’s still sitting on the bed, her expression unreadable now, a mask of cold fury back in place. But I saw her. I saw the hunger.

“See what happens when you’re a good girl?

” I ask, my voice a low rasp. “Maybe next time, you’ll get to taste it.

” I drop the towel and see her breath hitch before I turn from her and get dressed, wondering if she will give me the same show, or if she will hide herself from me.

The en-suite door clicking into place gives me my answer.

She is afraid to touch herself in front of me.

She knows what it will do to her. She won’t be able to stop herself from taking what she wants.

The shower turns on again, and I wait, debating what to do.

Eventually, I shrug and cross over to open the door. “You don’t get privacy, wildca—” I stop dead.

Venetia is standing naked in front of the mirror, feeling her tits in a desperate motion, her eyes closed.

They fly open, and I see the tears pool and fall.

“What is it?” I ask, immediately going to her.

“Nothing,” she lies, her bottom lip trembling.

I take her by her shoulders and turn her to face me. “What can you feel?”

“A lump,” she murmurs.

“May I?” I ask. She is probably panicking like fuck right now, and she needs someone with a calm head to give her a second verdict.

Her eyes, swimming with tears, bore into mine with that same defiance, but then she sees what I’m offering her, and she nods. I have no idea how to do this, but I know I have to try.

My hands, which have broken bones and ended lives, feel clumsy and rough against her soft skin.

I force them steady. Her breath hitches, a slight, broken sound in the steam-filled room.

Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and terrified, waiting for my verdict.

This isn’t a game anymore. “Show me where.”

She moves my fingers over to her flawless skin, and I close my eyes, letting my other senses take over. I feel all around, gently probing, searching for what she says she felt, but I don’t feel anything.

“Here?” I ask.

She stifles a sob. “Yes.”

I glide my fingers over her again, wanting to be sure.

“Do you feel it?” she asks desperately.

I open my eyes to find hers wide with panic. “No,” I say slowly, shaking my head. “I don’t feel anything.”

Her shoulders relax, but then they tense up again. “Are you sure?” She shoves my hand out of the way and probes herself.

“I’m as sure as I can be. Do you want to see whatever passes for a doctor on these grounds?”

She purses her lips and moves her fingers in a circular motion. “I swear there was something…”

“You’re panicking because we talked about your mum earlier. It’s natural.”

“No, at the Services, I felt it… I know I did.”

“Then let’s get you dressed and find the medical centre.”

She gulps and drops her hands. “No,” she whispers, shaking her head. “You’re right. It’s not there now.”

“Venetia,” I say, my voice softer than I intend, “this isn’t something to fuck about with.”

“I know,” she snaps, the fear making her sharp. She snatches a towel from the rail, wrapping it around her body like armour. “I just… I need a minute.”

I nod, stepping back to give her space, feeling strangely cold despite the steam billowing out of the shower.

The hard-on I had moments ago is a distant memory, replaced by a knot of something ugly and unfamiliar twisting in my gut.

This isn’t the kind of vulnerability I wanted to see.

This isn’t a weakness I can use to control her.

This is real fear, the kind that eats a person from the inside out.

Her father’s words echo in my head. Keep her heart beating.

He didn’t say shit about what to do if it was breaking on its own.

“Fine,” I say, my voice back to its usual growl. It feels like a lie. “You’ve got five minutes to pull yourself together. Then we’re going. I’m not asking.”

I turn and walk out of the bathroom, leaving her to her ghosts.

The whole room feels different now. The charged air of our power play has evaporated, leaving behind the stale scent of dread.

She’s not just a job anymore. She’s not just a challenge.

She’s a girl who thinks she’s dying. And for some fucking reason, the thought of that makes me want to burn the world down.