Page 34 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Viper

T he cyanide-soaked lily dangles from my fingers, its petals glistening with the oily sheen of death. Not a gift sent by an admirer. A message. A promise that they can get to her.

“We need to get rid of this,” I say, my voice unnervingly calm considering the murderous rage building inside me. “And then we need to sweep the room.”

Venetia stands perfectly still, her face a mask of controlled fury rather than fear. That’s what I admire about her—she doesn’t cower. She calculates.

“How did they get in?” she asks, glancing at the door. “It was locked.”

“There are a dozen ways past a basic lock.” I gingerly carry the lily to the bathroom, wrap it carefully in tissue, and place it in a small plastic bag I keep in my kit. The sweet, bitter almond scent clings to senses. Distinctive.

I scrub my hands thoroughly and methodically, then dry them and return to the bedroom. Venetia is running her hands along the windowsill, checking for entry points.

“The windows were locked from the inside,” she says, frowning.

“Which means they either have a key or picked the lock.” I check the room, beginning with the most obvious hiding spots—under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the curtains. “Or they’re still here.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide.

“I’m joking,” I say, though I’m not entirely. I continue my search, moving to the vents, the light fixtures, and any other place where someone could conceal a listening device or camera. “This isn’t random. This is targeted.”

“No shit,” she mutters. “But is it linked to last night?”

“I doubt it. This is more sophisticated.” I run my fingers along the edge of the desk, feeling for any irregularities. “Headley was a blunt instrument. This is sharper.”

“A black lily soaked in cyanide?” She arches an eyebrow. “A bit theatrical, isn’t it?”

“Lilies represent death.” I move to check the electrical outlets. “It’s a warning. A message. Someone wants you to know they’re coming.”

“Or they’re just trying to scare me.”

“Are you scared?” I glance up at her, curious.

“Fuck off,” she scoffs, which I take as a no.

I grin despite the situation. This girl has balls of steel.

“I’ve seen poisoned flowers before,” I say, remembering a hit one of my crew took out years ago. “A calling card for certain types of killers.”

Her eyes narrow. “What types?”

“The type who enjoys the performance as much as the kill.” I straighten up. “The type who wants their victims to suffer with anticipation before they strike.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’ve pissed off someone enough that they’re playing mind games before they try to kill me.” She doesn’t sound nearly concerned enough about this.

“What I’m saying is, we need to be fucking careful.”

I finish my sweep of the room, finding nothing. No bugs, no cameras. That means they either relied on luck and timing to slip in while we were out, or they’ve been watching our movements. Neither option sits well with me.

“We need to upgrade security,” I say, reaching for my phone. “And we need to tell the others.”

“Blake and Rafferty?”

“Yes. They’ve fucked with the wrong crew.”

“Crew?” She raises an eyebrow and smirks slightly.

I make the call to Blake first. He answers on the second ring.

“We have a situation,” I say without preamble. “Someone left a poisoned lily on Venetia’s pillow while we were out.”

Silence, then: “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Rafferty takes longer to reach, but when I explain, his response is immediate. “On my way.”

While we wait, I pull a small kit from my bag and begin setting up rudimentary security measures. Pressure sensors for the windows. A hair-thin tripwire for the door. A small camera disguised as a smoke detector.

“You just carry all this around with you?” Venetia asks, watching me work.

“Always be prepared.”

“What are you, a fucking Boy Scout?”

I glance up, meeting her gaze. “I’m the guy who runs the South Side. I stay alive by assuming everyone wants me dead.”

Something in my tone makes her pause. She studies me with those sharp green eyes that see too much. “Who taught you that?”

The question hits closer to home than she knows. “I learned it the hard way. It was too late by then.”

“Too late for what?”

“My sister.”

“You have a sister?” She sounds genuinely surprised. “Older or younger?”

“Had.” The word hangs between us, cold and final. “Older. By two years.”

Her face softens, just barely. On anyone else, it might look like pity. On Venetia, it looks like recognition. “What happened to her?”

I focus on setting up the pressure sensor, keeping my hands busy. “She killed herself. Couldn’t live with what our father did to her anymore.”

Venetia’s sharp intake of breath is all I need to know that she gets it without me having to fill in the blanks. It’s enough.

A knock at the door cuts through the silence. I cross over to answer it. Blake stands in the corridor, looking as perfect and unruffled as always. I let him in, followed shortly by Rafferty.

“Show me,” Blake demands, all business.

I retrieve the bag from the bathroom and hold it up. The black lily sits inside, still glistening with poison.

“Cyanide,” I explain. “I recognised the scent.”

Blake examines it without touching the bag. “A message, not an attempt. If they wanted you dead, they would have used something odourless, colourless.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Professional work,” Rafferty says quietly, and all eyes turn to him. “Clean, calculated, meant to be found.”

I nod.

Blake runs a finger along the edge of the desk, his face contemplative. “This changes things. Whoever took a shot at you the other night, is here.”

“The traffickers,”

“We need to move you somewhere safer,” I decide.

“No,” she says immediately. “I’m not running.”

“It’s not running, it’s strategic relocation,” Blake argues.

“I’m not leaving,” she says firmly. “If I move, they win. They know they’ve scared me.”

“Better scared than dead,” Rafferty points out.

“I’m not scared,” she snaps. “And I’m not moving. We beef up security here, we find out who’s behind this, and we deal with them. End of discussion.”

The three of us exchange glances. Her stubbornness is going to get her killed, but none of us can force her to leave. Not without destroying whatever trust we’ve built.

“Fine,” I concede.

The word tastes like acid. Fine. It’s the opposite of fucking fine. It’s a tactical nightmare. But arguing with her now, in front of them, will only undermine the fragile fucking balance we’ve got going on. She’s made her stand. Now we deal with the consequences.

“If we’re staying here,” Blake says, his voice a calm, cutting counterpoint to the rage simmering in my blood, “we need intelligence. A black lily isn’t a common calling card. It’s specific. It’s theatrical. We need to know who uses it.”

“I’ll start asking around,” Rafferty grunts, cracking his knuckles. “Shake a few trees. See what falls out. And I’ll put more pressure on my guy to find out who took a shot at you in the first place.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re looking into it?”

“Of course. I want to know who to kill.”

“We wait. We watch.” My gaze locks on Venetia. “And you don’t leave my sight. Not for a second.”

A killer who walked into our room and left a promise of death on her pillow. My failure.

The words are a brand on my soul, hotter than any ink. It’s a familiar feeling, the cold dread that coils in my gut when I fail to protect the people I’m supposed to. It’s the same feeling I had when I found my sister. Too fucking late.

“It’s not your failure,” Venetia says quietly, her eyes locking on mine, reading the goddamn script in my head again.

Before I can argue, Blake straightens his already perfect tie. “Rafferty and I will handle the intel. Viper, you handle her.” He says it like she’s a line item on a spreadsheet, but his eyes, when they meet mine, are sharp with a shared, cold purpose. “Keep her breathing.”

“That’s the fucking plan,” I grunt.

Rafferty gives Venetia a nod, his usual smirk replaced by a grim resolve. “Yell if you need anything.” He and Blake leave, the click of the door echoing in the suddenly too-quiet room.

Now it’s just us. The two of us, a venomous flower, and the ghost of a killer who walked through our walls.

I close the distance between us, my hands coming up to grip her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “Listen to me, wildcat,” I say, my voice a low, rough command. “They will not get to you. I will burn this whole fucking world to the ground before I let them near you again. Do you understand me?”

She gives a single, sharp nod. It’s not enough.

I pull her into my arms, crushing her against my chest. Her bruised body is stiff for a moment before she melts against me, her face burying into my chest. I hold her, my hand cradling the back of her head, my promise a silent, desperate prayer against her hair.

She is mine. And I do not fail what is mine. Not again. Never again.