Page 36 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Rafferty

T he call comes as I’m walking back to my room. Groaning, as I know the timing couldn’t be worse. Venetia needs me here, not swanning off on a job. But no one, not even me, ignores my dad’s call on the second SIM. Only two people have this number, and none of them call for a chat.

“Raff.”

“Location?” We don’t deal with pleasantries on this line.

“Gordon House Road.”

Close. Twenty minutes from the academy at most. “Timeline?”

“2 PM. South exit, McCrey Building.”

I check my watch. Just over an hour to get in position.

“Target?”

“Six two, white Tom Ford suit, wireless glasses. Rolex.” The last word is a sneer. Pretty boy wants to look rich.

I end the call and move to my wardrobe, sliding the false back panel aside to reveal my equipment.

The case comes out first. Black, nondescript, and businesslike.

Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, is my Accuracy International AX50, broken down into its component parts.

It’s excessive for most jobs, but I like the weight of it. The certainty.

I pack five .50 calibre rounds, though I’ll only need one if I do my job properly. The suppressor goes in last, wrapped in a microfibre cloth. It won’t make the rifle silent, nothing does, but it will mask the direction and reduce the sound enough to buy me time to clear the area.

I dress in clothes that won’t stand out in the business district. Suit and tie. Nothing memorable or outlandish.

Picking up the case, I head out.

My Bentley is parked out front next to Viper’s Range Rover.

The engine purrs to life, quiet and powerful. I’ve had the car modified, of course. Reinforced chassis. Bulletproof glass. Engine upgrade that takes it from impressive to lethal. But from the outside, it’s just another rich kid’s toy.

I pull out of the car park, nodding to the security guard who barely glances up from his phone. The academy gates open automatically for vehicles with registered transponders. No questions asked about why a student with the kind of connections I have, is leaving.

The Bentley’s interior is silent except for classical music playing softly through the speakers. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. It helps me focus, the mathematical precision of the notes matching the calculations running through my head. Distance. Wind speed. Angle.

The city appears ahead, and I navigate the traffic and the streets until I find a parking spot three streets away from the target location. Close enough for a quick exit, far enough to avoid any connection.

The walk to the location takes four minutes. I move with purpose but not urgency.

Gordon House Road is busy. The lunchtime crowd is a river of suits and preoccupied faces, a perfect urban camouflage.

I move through it, a ghost in plain sight.

Across the street, the McCrey Building stands, a monument of glass and steel.

Its south exit opens onto a sterile plaza, an ideal kill zone.

My vantage point is a bland, ten-storey office block directly opposite.

I walk into the Reception with the unearned confidence of someone who works here every damn day.

The bored receptionist doesn’t even look up from her screen when I use the universal keycard to slip through the electronic gateway.

While I wait for the lift, I scan the board of companies housed in this block.

All floors are taken except the top one.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The doors ding open, and I press the button for floor nine, sharing the ride with two office workers discussing their weekend plans.

They don’t exist to me, as I don’t exist to them.

They get off on floor seven, leaving me alone to press for floor ten.

At the top, the doors slide open to reveal an empty office space.

At the end of a quiet corridor, I find an office.

The door is unlocked. Perfect. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of dust and old carpet.

I move to the large window and crack it open, its grime-streaked surface giving me a clear view of the target area below.

Crouching down, I place the case on the thinning grey carpet and flip it open.

I assemble the rifle, my movements automatic after years of repetition. Barrel to receiver. Bolt mechanism. Magazine. Scope mount. Each piece slots together with a satisfying click. No wasted motion.

The scope is a Schmidt it’s on a girl with fire in her eyes and bruises on her skin. A girl who had a poisoned fucking lily left on her pillow.

I pull back through the Academy gates, and I glide the car into its designated spot.

I kill the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the unease that’s been chewing at me since I left.

I grab the case from the passenger seat and walk back into the academy, another student returning from a day out. No one gives me a second glance.

Back in my room, the door locked behind me, I begin the ritual. Each component is cleaned with a ruthless efficiency until the scent of gun oil and solvent fills the air. It’s a mindless task, muscle memory taking over, which leaves my mind free to churn.

Every screw I tighten, every patch I run down the barrel, all I can see is the dark bruise on Venetia’s throat.

This hit, this clean, professional execution, should have felt satisfying.

It should have been a release. Instead, it was an irritation.

A distraction from the real threat, the one that can walk through locked doors and leave poisoned promises on pillows.

I finish the cleaning, my hands moving with an agitation that’s foreign to me.

The rifle is a tool. Impersonal. But the threat against Venetia feels like a personal fucking insult.

I put the case away, the false panel sliding shut with a quiet thud.

The suit comes off, replaced by jeans and a black t-shirt.

My reflection is a stranger, a man caught between two worlds.

The cold, detached killer and something else. Something I don’t have a name for yet.

I need to find her. I need her to give me the release that was meant to come. I need to slide my cock into her hot, wet pussy and rail her until she screams my name and rakes those sharp nails over my skin.

I pound my fist against the solid oak of her bedroom door, the sound a sharp crack in the hallway’s silence.

“Open the fucking door, Stone.” The murmur of voices inside ceases.

Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approach from the other side.

The lock clicks, and the door opens a fraction.

Viper’s face fills the gap, his eyes narrowed, a silent fucking challenge.

“What?” he growls. I shove my shoulder against the door, forcing him back a step.

“I want to see her.” She’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

I approach her, and she knows instantly what’s coming. And she doesn’t stop it.

She helps.