Page 27 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Rafferty

I really hate the childishness of hazing.

It’s so fucking pathetic, created by boys who are trying to be men.

It’s not uncommon at St. Seb’s, but I’ve never really paid much attention to it before.

If anyone tried to haze me, they either failed or didn’t bother to begin with.

I’m not weak. Not physically, not mentally.

I’ve stared down the sight of a rifle and shot a man’s brains out and walked away before they’ve even hit the floor.

My initiation into my family’s business was different.

It was necessity. Eighteen years old and already a killer.

Most of the mafia heirs here talk big but have no field time.

But tonight, I have a vested interest. Tonight, the target isn’t some nameless first year; it’s Venetia, and that makes this personal. Using a worthless cunt like Maddox Headley to go after a queen is an insult I’m eager to see repaid in blood.

I move through the trees ringing the lake, a shadow amongst shadows.

The air is cool and smells of pine and damp earth.

Up ahead, the old boathouse is a dark silhouette against the water, lit by a few pathetic lanterns that Headley’s crew have strung up.

I can see them moving around on the dilapidated decking, a pack of nervous hyenas trying to act like wolves.

They’re jumpy, whispering and glancing over their shoulders every few seconds.

Finding a spot in the deep gloom where the woods meet the shoreline, I crouch down and wait. But something feels off. If this is supposed to be a public humiliation, why is it so quiet? Where is the music? The beer? The other students?

This isn’t the location.

We’ve been played.

Shooting my gaze around as I rise, I need to find Viper, so we can hunt down Venetia. She is alone, and we left her that way. I’m going to kill that little arsehole, Jefferson. He gave us the wrong intel.

My blood runs cold. This isn’t a party; it’s a fucking decoy. Ana played us all.

I turn on my heel, a curse ripping from my throat. My fury is a white-hot spike, aimed squarely at Jefferson. When I find him, I’m going to break more than his jaw.

I melt back into the trees, moving with silent speed. My mind goes over and discards possibilities. Not his room. Too private. Not the woods. Too unpredictable. It has to be somewhere he controls, somewhere he feels safe. A place where a bottom-feeder can pretend he’s a king.

A flicker of movement to my left has me dropping into a crouch, my hand going to the knife at my ankle. A dark shape detaches itself from the trunk of an ancient oak. Viper. His face is a thundercloud, his eyes blazing with murderous light.

“It’s a decoy,” I hiss, stating the obvious.

“I know,” he bites out, his voice a low, gravelly promise of violence.

“Where?” I demand.

His gaze is fixed on the distant lights of the academy. “Where do boys go when they want a conquest?”

His words are a fucking ignition switch. A conquest. Headley isn’t a man. He’s a boy playing at power. A boy puts his prize on a pedestal so he can show it off. A trophy.

The clock tower.

“Best guess? The fucking clock tower,” I snarl, the pieces slamming into place. “It’s the highest point on campus. A throne for a fucking wannabe king.”

Viper doesn’t waste time with a reply. He’s already moving, a blur of dark purpose disappearing into the trees.

I’m right on his heels, a synchronised movement of two predators with a single, bloody purpose.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. The air between us is thick with a shared, homicidal intent.

My mind is a slideshow of every way I’m going to make Headley bleed for this.

Before we make it back onto the main campus grounds, we are ambushed.

They spill out from behind the trees, eight of them, dark shapes armed with baseball bats and iron pipes. They’re a pathetic barricade, shifting nervously on their feet, trying to look tough.

Viper doesn’t break stride. He just snarls, a low, animal sound, and veers left. I take the right. We don’t need a plan. We are the fucking plan.

The first idiot swings a bat at my head. I duck under it, my knife already in my hand. The blade flashes once, a silver arc in the gloom, and I sever the tendons in his wrist. The bat clatters to the ground, and he screams, clutching his useless hand. I don’t give him a second glance.

Viper is a fucking whirlwind of destruction. I hear a wet crunch, followed by a sickening snap of bone. He moves through them with brutal force and savage efficiency. A shattered kneecap here, a broken jaw there. He’s not killing them. He’s dismantling them.

I pivot, sidestepping a wild swing from my attacker. But this is too easy. Amateur hour. A single, brutal punch to his throat crushes his windpipe, and he drops, gurgling.

A second goon comes at me, and I drive the handle of my knife into his throat, collapsing his windpipe. He gurgles, his eyes wide with shock as he claws at his neck and falls to his knees.

Viper stands over one he didn’t maim, pressing down the tip of the bat into the attacker’s throat. “Where is he?”

“Fuck you,” the kid chokes out, stupidly.

Viper applies more pressure. The man’s face turns a mottled purple. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

I watch this with approval. This is a man who has zero fucks left to give. He lives by his own rules and knows how to enforce them all on his own with his bare hands. He is life goals. Not that I would ever tell him that.

I crouch down next to Headley’s man and tut. “Listen up, shit for brains. You’ve seen what we did to your little friends. Answer the man, or you will end up a smear on the path.”

I’m a patient fucking man when I want to be, but right now, my patience is a lit fuse burning down to a barrel of dynamite. Viper gives me a look, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

I lean in closer, my voice a deathly whisper. “Here’s how this is going to go. If he has to ask again where Headley is taking her, he’s going to break one of your legs, and I’m going to break the other. Or you can just tell us, and we’ll only break one.”

The man’s eyes are wide with terror, darting between me and the silent, murderous fury that is Viper Stone. He swallows hard, the sound slick and panicked. “Clock tower,” he croaks, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

Viper grunts, a sound of grim satisfaction.

He removes the bat from the kid’s throat, and for a second, I think he’s going to let him off.

Then he brings the bat down in a swift, brutal arc against the kid’s kneecap.

The crack is sickeningly loud, followed by a high-pitched scream of agony that is quickly cut off as the kid passes out from the pain.

“Let’s go,” Viper snarls, dropping the bat.

We leave the groaning, broken mess of them behind without a second glance.

We move as one unit, two predators locked onto the same target.

The gothic spires of the main academy buildings rise above the trees, and there, taller than the rest, is the clock tower.

Its face is lit, a pale, malevolent moon in the now dark sky.

A throne for a fucking cockroach. He’s going to die up there.

Slowly. And I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.