Page 21 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Viper

I ’m so fucking bored. How am I going to survive a whole year of this?

My gaze wanders briefly, but I quickly catch it and draw it back to Venetia. She sighs. She can feel it burning into her skin, and she hates it almost as much as she loves it.

The professor of whatever the fuck lecture we’re in, drones on and on, and my hands itch to smash something.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I draw it out, not beholden to the rules of this posh academy.

Unknown number: VCH is free after this. Spar?

Rafferty.

I don’t even hesitate: Yeah.

It is nearing lunchtime, and I’m already ready to smash someone’s face in. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to end Maddox Headley before he gets within ten feet of Venetia. This isn’t how I play this game. Threats are an immediate assessment and annihilation.

The thought of it, letting that little prick get close enough to even try something, makes my skin crawl.

It’s a tactical error. You cut the head off the snake before it even knows you’re in the room, you don’t let it hiss at you first. But this isn’t my world.

This is hers, and she wants to play. She wants to see them squirm.

Fine. But when the time comes, I’m not just making an example of Headley.

I’m going to make a fucking masterpiece of him.

The bell finally shrieks, a welcome release from this purgatory of academia. Venetia stretches like a cat, a slow, deliberate movement that draws the eyes of half the room. I stand, shoving my chair back with a harsh scrape.

“Let’s go,” I grunt.

“Lunch? I’m starving.”

“No. We’re going to the gym. Your boy Warrick wants me to give him a workout.”

Her eyebrow shoots up, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. “Oh? And you agreed?”

“I need to hit something before...” I grab her arm, not hard, but so she knows she isn’t getting out of this. “And you’re going to watch.”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face. “Before what, Daddy ?”

I meet her gaze and crowd her space. She tilts her head back, her eyes promising something way more fun than beating the shit out of Warrick. I want to. With everything that I am, I want to ram her up against this wall and devour her until she can’t even remember her own name.

“Before I forget myself and show you exactly what happens to naughty girls who talk back.”

Her breath hitches, a soft, inviting sound. She wants it. She’s pushing me to my limit, daring me to snap.

I force myself to pull back, a cruel smirk twisting my lips. It’s a victory, but it tastes like ash. “But that’s not the plan. Yet. The plan is you come and watch me beat your man to a pulp. Maybe that’ll get you wet enough to finally beg me properly.”

Her laugh is a sharp, frustrated sound. “You’re a fucking tease, Stone.”

“And you’re a fucking brat who needs to be taught a lesson,” I retort, my hand closing around her throat. I don’t give her a choice, just start moving, pulling her along the corridor. “Now walk.” I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. “And then… we’ll deal with you.”

The promise hangs between us, thick and heavy. She stumbles slightly, and I tighten my grip, a silent reminder of who is in control, before I let her go and expect her to move. She does.

I find the gym easily, having studied the map of the campus this morning. The gym is a cavernous space of steel and sweat, and Rafferty is already there, beating on a punchbag with a force that threatens to send it flying. He stops when he sees us, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.

His eyes flick to Venetia. “You brought exquisite trouble.”

I shove her towards a bench. “Sit. Don’t move.” Then I turn to face Warrick, stripping my tee off and then my boots and socks. Venetia’s gaze lingers on me, and it lights a fire in my soul. I enjoy her eyes on me.

“You ready to get your arse handed to you, Stone?” Rafferty taunts, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You wish,” I snarl back, and we circle each other on the mat, a pair of predators sizing each other up. The air crackles with anticipation. It’s not just a spar; it’s a performance. For her. We both fucking know it.

“No rules?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.

“Only one,” I snarl. “Don’t fucking lose.”

I launch myself at him without warning. There’s no bell, no referee.

Just the raw, silent understanding between two men who speak the language of violence.

My first punch is a feint, a test of his reflexes.

He’s quick, swaying back just enough for my fist to whistle past his ear.

He counters with a kick aimed at my ribs, but I block it with my forearm, the impact a dull thud that vibrates up to my shoulder.

He’s strong, a trained fucking killer. His movements are precise, economical, every strike is designed to maim or disable. I’m pure instinct and brute force, a street brawler honed by years of having to be the meanest bastard in the room just to survive.

We trade blows, a brutal savagery of blocks and strikes.

The air crackles with the force of our impacts.

I glance over at Venetia. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, a flush high on her cheeks.

She’s fucking turned on. The sight of it sends a jolt of pure, possessive lust through me, fuelling the fire in my fists.

This is for her. Every hit, every grunt of pain, is a declaration.

I am the bigger monster. The one who will protect her.

The knowledge sends a fresh surge of adrenaline through me.

I want her to see this. I want her to see what I can do, the violence I’m capable of.

I want her to know that while those other cunts offer her words and games, I offer her this.

Raw, undeniable power. I slam a right hook into his jaw, the crack of bone on bone echoing in the vast space.

He stumbles back a step, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

He just laughs, a low, guttural sound, and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Good,” he spits, his eyes blazing. “Now we can really start.”

I drive Rafferty back with a vicious combination, ending with a kick that sweeps his legs out from under him. He hits the mat with a heavy thud. He’s up in under two seconds.

He lunges, and the fight shifts. It’s no longer a spar.

It’s a fucking war. He’s faster than me, more technical, but I have a higher pain tolerance and a well of fucking rage he can’t match.

I take a kick to the ribs that would have cracked a lesser man’s bones, and I just use the momentum to spin, driving my elbow into the side of his head.

He staggers, his eyes glazing for a split second, and I’m on him.

I get him in a chokehold, my arm clamped around his throat, my body flush against his back. He struggles, his powerful muscles straining against my hold. “Tap,” I grunt into his ear, squeezing harder.

He doesn’t tap. The stubborn bastard slams his head back into my nose.

Stars explode behind my eyes, and the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.

My grip loosens for a fraction of a second, and it’s all he needs.

He twists, breaking free, and we’re facing each other again, both of us breathing heavily, covered in sweat, and bleeding.

I glance at Venetia. She’s on her feet now, her body taut, her hands clenched into fists. Her green eyes are blazing with a raw, primal excitement.

“Had enough?” I grunt.

Rafferty grins. “Not even close.”

He comes at me again, a feral glint in his blue eyes. I let him get close, take a shot to my ribs that feels like a sledgehammer, and use the opening to grab him, twisting us both to the ground.

We grapple on the mat, a tangled mess of muscle and rage.

He’s fucking strong, trying to lock my arm, but I’m stronger.

I slam my forehead into his, a dirty move born from a hundred back-alley brawls.

He grunts, his grip loosening, and I reverse our positions, pinning him beneath me, my forearm pressing against his windpipe.

“Yield,” I snarl, my face inches from his.

He glares up at me, his chest heaving, a defiant smile twisting his bloody lips. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse, that I’ll have to choke him unconscious. Then, he gives a single, sharp tap on my arm.

I let him go instantly, rolling off and collapsing onto the mat beside him.

Then I hear it. A slow, deliberate clap.

I push myself up onto my elbows. Venetia is walking towards us, her hips swaying, her eyes shining with a dangerous, exhilarating light. She looks from me to Rafferty, a queen surveying her bloodied champions.

“Well,” she says, her voice a low, throaty purr that makes my dick instantly hard. “That was a fucking appetiser. I can’t wait for the main course.”

Before I can move, Rafferty kicks her legs out from under her and catches her before she hits the mat.

He rolls on top of her, pinning her to the mat, and I see red.

I shove him so fucking hard, he flies off her and skids across the mat, landing in a heap a few feet away.

The red mist descends, a familiar rage that whites out everything but my target.

Before he can even get to his feet, I’m standing between him and Venetia, my body a shield between her and the world.

“Get up,” I snarl, my voice low and shaking with fury.

She doesn’t look scared. She looks fucking ecstatic. A wild, breathless laugh escapes her as she pushes herself up onto her elbows, her hair a mess around her flushed face. “Now that was a main course.”

“He doesn’t touch you,” I bite out, my gaze still locked on Rafferty as he slowly, deliberately, gets to his feet, a trickle of fresh blood running from a cut on his forehead. He’s grinning like a fucking madman. “No one touches you.”

“Just playing, Stone,” Rafferty says, his voice laced with amusement. “Wanted to see if she could handle a real man.”

“She’s not yours to play with,” I roar, stepping towards him, my fists clenching.

“Enough.” Venetia’s voice cuts through my rage, sharp and commanding.

I stop, turning to look at her. She’s on her feet now, standing between us, a queen surveying her blood-soaked territory.

“I decide who touches me.” Her gaze rakes over me, then Rafferty, a possessive fire in her green eyes.

“And right now, I’m thinking you both need to learn how to share. ”