Page 4 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Viper

T he overcast morning casts a grey, watery light over Manchester when I pull my Range Rover out of the garage.

I haven’t slept. My head throbs, but the pain does nothing to quiet the storm in my head.

Venetia Corbyn-Hale. A mafia princess playing stripper in my club.

It’s so fucking audacious I almost have to respect it.

Almost. But the trouble she’s dragged to my door eclipses any admiration.

The drive to Cheshire is a long fucking time to think.

A long time for the rage to cool into something harder, something sharper.

Every mile deeper into this green, manicured hell is a mile further from my own turf, and I feel the shift in power like a change in atmospheric pressure.

I’m walking into the lion’s den, summoned by the king himself.

Venetia Corbyn-Hale.

The name echoes in my skull, fitting all the jagged pieces together.

The accent. The attitude. The trained way she moved when that bullet flew.

She’s a fucking princess of the underworld, undercover in my club for reasons I’m going to spank out of her the next time I see her.

And I will see her again, I will get my hand to clap down on that tight arse.

The fucking balls on her. To waltz into my club, under my nose, for what? To spy on me? She played me. She played Eric, Landon… all of us, and then almost got her head blown off.

I pull my car up to a set of imposing iron gates that look older than my entire bloodline.

The enormous wrought-iron gates have a fancy CH emblem, which part of me quite likes.

The rest of me finds disdain for this entire way of life.

A camera swivels towards me, and I stick my middle finger up.

A moment later, the gates swing open with silent menace.

The long, winding drive leads to a manor house that’s less of a home and more of a fucking fortress.

Anton Corbyn-Hale is a legend. A man who pulls strings that could strangle my entire operation without him even breaking a sweat.

Somehow in this twisted shitshow we call life, I saved his daughter.

He calls it a debt, but I know what it really is.

It’s a leash, and he’s about to give it a sharp fucking tug.

I park the car, kill the engine, and sit for a moment in the heavy silence. He thinks he has me. He thinks I’ll come crawling with demands of what I want in return, but he can get fucked. All I want is to get this over with.

I swing the door open and step out, the crunch of gravel under my boots the only sound in the unnervingly quiet morning.

The air here is different. Cleaner. It reeks of money so old it’s practically fossilised.

I slam the car door shut, the sound like a gunshot in the stillness, and stalk towards the massive oak doors.

Before my knuckles can even graze the wood, one of the doors swings inward. A man in a suit, straight-backed and expressionless, stands in the doorway. “Mr Stone. Mr Corbyn-Hale is expecting you.”

I brush past him without a word, my eyes scanning the cavernous foyer.

Marble floors, paintings that probably cost more than my entire club, and a fucking chandelier that looks like it was nicked from a palace.

It’s all designed to intimidate. To scream power.

It just makes me want to smash something.

The guy leads me through a series of grand, soulless corridors. Every surface gleams. Every corner is perfect. It’s a museum, not a home. This is the cage she grew up in. No wonder she has a death wish.

He stops before a set of dark wood double doors and gestures for me to enter. “He’s in his study.”

I shove the door open, not waiting for an invitation, and step inside.

Then my eyes land on him. Anton Corbyn-Hale, standing by the window, looking out over his kingdom.

His head turns towards me, and he smiles.

But it’s like being smiled at by a crocodile before it snaps its jaw and bites you completely in half.

“Viper Stone. It’s nice to finally meet the infamous head of the South Side gang.”

I narrow my eyes. That greeting was entirely too pleasant for my liking. “Well, here I am,” I say, sitting in one of the plush armchairs on this side of the huge desk. “Look, Mr Corbyn-Hale?—”

“Anton, please.”

Anton. Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck is this?

“Anton,” I growl. “I don’t know why I’m here, and I’m not really too bothered. But as you can imagine, being out of my territory is like handing it over to my enemies on a silver platter, so if we could get to the point, I’d appreciate it.”

He scrutinises me for a moment before he nods. “Direct. I can appreciate that . But I think you may have to call up a temporary head if you accept my offer.”

“What offer?” I don’t like the sound of this.

He sits in his high-backed leather chair. “What you did last night, whether unintentionally or not, has consequences. I know you are the type of man who isn’t particularly bothered by my gratitude, and I won’t insult you with a reward for saving my daughter’s head.”

“So why am I here?”

“I have an offer for you. It’s not actually a reward by any stretch, but the money is something I’m sure you will find… useful.”

“I don’t want your money,” I state, sitting back in the chair, intrigued despite my instinct to run as far away from this conversation as possible.

“It’s not a handout. You will have to earn it.”

I scoff. “For doing what, exactly?”

“Exactly what you did last night. Protecting my daughter.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am offering you a million pounds and a slice of my pie to accompany my daughter out of the county and to keep her safe for the next year.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“And what in hell makes you think I’d accept a job as her fucking bodyguard?”

“You protected her when there was nothing in it for you. What will you do when there is everything to gain and nothing to lose, Mr Stone?”

A harsh laugh rips from my throat. It’s a raw, ugly sound that holds no humour, only pure disbelief.

“You’re taking the piss.” I lean forward, planting my elbows on my knees, the leather of the chair groaning in protest. “You want to hire me to be a fucking babysitter for your reckless daughter?” I’m not even insulted.

I’m beyond that. He’s the top of the food chain, and he’s treating me like some hired muscle he can buy.

“You’ve got your own army. Why the fuck would you come to me? ”

Anton’s expression doesn’t flicker. He’s a statue carved from granite and old money.

“You know how this shit works, Stone. They are expecting me to wrap her in cotton wool with my own men. They are not expecting me to hand her over to the leader of the South Side gang and ship her off to St. Seb’s.

” He steeples his fingers. “You are the perfect solution. You are young enough at twenty-five to relate to her, but older than her to exert an authority over her. You are unpredictable. Unaffiliated with my organisation. Brutal enough to keep her alive, and more importantly, to keep her in line.”

The last part hits something in me that I don’t like.

Keep her in line. The thought of taming that little wildcat, of having a legitimate reason to put my hands on her, to control her, it’s a dark, tempting poison seeping into my veins.

A million quid, a piece of his empire, and his daughter.

He’s not offering me a job. He’s offering me a prize, and the bait is fucking irresistible.

“St. Seb’s?” I ask instead, leaning back.

“St. Sebastian’s College at Cravenmoor Academy.”

I roll my eyes. Some fancy, posh school for rich kids.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“No.”

“Cravenmoor was founded over six hundred years ago by a secret society who shall remain nameless for these purposes. Later, it was split into several colleges, each with their own affiliations. St. Sebastian’s is a mafia heir playground.”

“Elite mafia kids all running around in one place? You have got to be fucking kidding me?”

“I never joke about my daughter and her safety. This is the best place for her.”

“Where is it?”

“Northumberland.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I snarl. “That is hundreds of miles from my territory.”

“Hence why you need to place someone in charge who can look after your patch and not try to sneak it out from under you. However, if that happens, you will have more than enough power behind you to get it back.” He gives me a level stare, and I see what he means. He means I will have his power .

His power.

It hangs in the air between us, heavy and seductive. It’s a fucking kingdom he’s offering me, not just a slice. With his backing, the South Side would be untouchable. My enemies would piss themselves at the mere mention of my name connected to his. It’s the ultimate power play.

All I have to do is sell my soul and become a glorified minder.

“So, I trade my turf for a leash and a kennel in the fucking countryside,” I say, my voice flat. “And what about the princess? Does she know you’re pimping her out to the likes of me for her own protection?”

The thought of her reaction, the unadulterated fury when she finds out she’s being shackled to me, is almost worth the price of admission.

Anton gives a thin, humourless smile. “My daughter’s compliance is not your concern.

” He leans back, the picture of calm control.

“She will be informed. She will not be happy. But she will go. Your job is to ensure she stays there, and stays alive. The other students at St. Sebastian’s play for keeps.

Her enemies will not be the only ones she has to worry about. ”

It’s a chess move. He’s taking his rogue queen off the board and putting her in a gilded cage full of other predators, with me as the zookeeper. The sheer fucking audacity of it is staggering. But the prize… the prize is everything. Power. Control. Her .

“She won’t listen to a word I say,” I state, testing him.

“Then make her,” Anton replies, his voice dropping to a cold, hard whisper. “Break her, for all I care. Just keep her heart beating.”

Break her.

The words hang in the air between us, a brutal, chilling permission slip.

My cock gives a hard, insistent throb against my pants.

The thought of taking that defiant little spitfire, of seeing that fire in her eyes turn to something else, something darker, something that belongs to me, is a fantasy I hadn’t known I harboured until she ground her perfect pussy on my lap.

Anton watches me, his expression unreadable. He thinks he’s playing me. Offering me power and money to solve his little princess problem. He sees me as a tool. A blunt, savage instrument to control his wayward heir. He has no fucking idea what he’s just unleashed.

The corner of my mouth quirks up. This changes things. This isn’t a bodyguard job anymore. This is a fucking conquest.

“Fine,” I say, the word a low growl. “I’ll do it.”

Anton’s mask of calm doesn’t slip, but I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Relief? Triumph? It doesn’t matter.

“But let’s get one thing straight,” I continue, leaning forward again, my voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that holds its own threat.

“When we’re out of this fucking county, she’s mine.

My rules. My way. You don’t interfere. You don’t call.

You don’t send your fucking goons to check up on us.

You give me the million now, and I get the papers for my slice of your pie before I leave. Understood?”

He studies me for a long, silent moment. The air crackles with the tension of two apex predators sizing each other up. Then he gives a slow, deliberate nod, and slides a folder over the desk. “Understood. You have a deal, Mr Stone. You leave in two hours.”

He rises and extends a hand across the vast expanse of his desk. I rise too and take it, my grip firm, crushing. This isn’t a handshake. It’s a contract sealed in unspoken violence.

I’m selling my freedom for a year, but I’m buying an empire, and a princess to play with.

“Sit back down,” he says. “You will be here when I tell her.”

I freeze, my arse hovering over the chair.

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.