Page 7 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Viper

S he stares at me as if I just crawled out from under a rock. She doesn’t move. She simply stares at me, her breathing shallow.

“I said, move.”

No response.

She is either being defiant, or there is something deeper going on here.

But I want to get out of here and on the road, doing this job Anton has paid me so handsomely for.

The folder contained a piece of his pie that was staggering.

Not that I’d ever let him know that. I don’t want to give him the opportunity to change his mind, and his princess is delaying my hasty exit.

I move into her personal space, and she tilts her head back to look at me. “You listen to your father, Venetia? Yeah?”

She glares at me. “No.”

“Liar,” I say with a smile. “You’re doing exactly what he wants you to do.”

“I have a choice.”

“No, you don’t. He said go, and you packed a bag. So, think about this for a second. Consider me your daddy , Venetia.” The connotation hangs there heavily. “You will do what I say, when I say it.”

Her laugh is a sharp, ugly sound that scrapes at my last nerve. “You wish. You’re the hired help. Don’t forget it.”

I close the distance between us in a single step, crowding her against the bed. Her chin lifts, those green eyes blazing with defiance, but I see the flicker of a pulse in her throat. She’s not scared, not really. She’s wired for this kind of fight. Good.

“The hired help just got handed the keys to your cage, wildcat,” I snarl, my voice a low rasp.

I reach past her, my arm brushing her tits as I grab the handle of her suitcase and yank it off the bed.

“This is how it works now. I give an order, and you fucking obey it. If you don’t, I will put you over my knee and remind you who’s in charge. Are we clear?”

Her nostrils flare. She wants to spit in my face, I can see it. But something in my gaze, some promise of violence she understands, makes her bite back the words.

“Crystal,” she grits out, the word dripping with venom, but we both know she doesn’t mean it.

“Good girl.” I hoist the bag easily. “Now walk.”

I watch as she pushes herself away from the bed, her movements stiff with rage. She grabs her handbag and stalks towards the door, every line of her body screaming murder. “Wait,” she says, and I huff out an irritated breath. “I need something.”

“What?”

She crosses over to her wardrobe and bends down to pull out a yellow and black toolbox. It looks like it weighs a tonne, but she hoists it up, gripping the handle tightly.

“Do I want to know?”

She drops it on the bed and flips it open.

The top tray reveals standard tools, a hammer, some screwdrivers, nails, that sort of thing.

Also, tools useful for maiming and violence.

She lifts the tray, and I inch closer, intrigued despite myself.

What I see makes my cock stiffen. An array of illegal tools ranging from a top-of-the-range handgun, knuckledusters, throwing stars, a pair of nunchucks I’d like to see her wield, to a stash of Zombie knives that could gut a man and make him wish he’d made better choices.

This girl is a fucking work of art. My kind of art. Bloody, sharp, and lethal. “You’re not just a pretty face with a nice rack, are you, wildcat?”

She snaps the lid shut, her green eyes flashing with a possessive fire. “I handle my own problems.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.” I reach out and take the toolbox from her, the weight of it satisfying in my hand. Her fingers linger on the handle for a second too long, a silent tug-of-war that I win without effort. Her defiant glare is pure fucking foreplay. “I’ll look after this for you.”

“Don’t touch my things,” she snarls, taking a step towards me.

“They’re my things now,” I correct her, my voice dropping. “Just like you are. Now, are you done playing house, or do I need to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here?”

The promise in my tone has her jaw tightening, but she gives a curt, furious nod. She knows she’s lost this round.

I smirk, turning my back on her and striding out of the room, her toolbox in one hand, her suitcase in the other. Her enraged footsteps follow me down the grand staircase.

Anton is waiting with a grim expression.

I wonder if he has changed his mind. I don’t wait to find out.

I stride past him, expecting Venetia to stop and have a tearful goodbye or whatever shit, but she follows me with an icy cold attitude that practically frosts the ground beneath her.

She stalks straight past her dad, her head held high, ignoring the shit out of him as I pause.

I try not to laugh. I actually feel sorry for the old bastard. His face falls for a split second, but it is quickly replaced by a blank mask.

Venetia strides out of the house in front of me, and I shrug at Anton.

He sighs and turns and walks away.

I don’t give a fuck about their family drama.

I follow Venetia out into the now-sunny morning, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind us with a final thud.

She stands by my Range Rover, arms crossed over her glorious chest, her stiletto heels digging into the gravel.

Her back is rigid, a pillar of pure, unadulterated fury.

I pop the boot and dump her shit inside, the toolbox landing with a heavy, satisfying clang. I slam it shut and walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open. “Get in.”

She doesn’t move, just glares at me. “I’m not a dog.”

“No, you’re not,” I agree, my voice dropping. “A dog would be easier to train, but you are my little bitch,” I gesture with my head, “so get in the car, Venetia. Or our first lesson starts right here on the driveway. I’m sure your dad has cameras.”

Her eyes flash dangerously. She knows I’d do it. With a low snarl she throws her bag in and slides into the seat, slamming the door shut so hard the whole car shakes.

I wince. That is not going to go down well.

I get in behind the wheel, the smell of her perfume and her anger filling the small space. It’s intoxicating. For a long moment, we just sit there in the silence, the engine off, the tension a living thing between us. This is my world now. This car. This girl. This fucking job.

I fire up the engine. “Welcome to your new life, wildcat.”

She just stares straight ahead, her jaw set, before she turns her head at the hissing, to look over her shoulder at the glass box on the back seat.

Her eyes widen. “What. The fuck. Is that?”

I follow her gaze with a cheerful smile. “That’s Lucy.”

“Lucy?” she croaks. “What… is she, exactly?”

“A black mamba.”

Her gaze shoots to mine. “A black mamba. Africa’s deadliest snake?”

“The one and only.”

“How… how did you get that into this country?”

“I have my ways.”

“You drive around with the world’s second most venomous snake on your back seat?” Her voice goes up several octaves.

“Yep. Sometimes she gets to play out.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you have that?”

“Because its venom can kill an adult in under forty-five minutes without treatment. It makes for a speedier information gathering exercise.”

Her gaze flickers from the snake back to me, then back to the snake again. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, and it’s not the reaction I was expecting. It’s not fear. It’s appreciation.

“You really are a complete and utter psychopath.”

“Takes one to know one,” I counter, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the pristine gravel drive. The grand manor shrinks in the rearview mirror until it’s gone, swallowed by the ancient trees lining the road.

She leans her head back against the cool leather of the seat, her eyes closing for a moment. “So, what’s the plan, Viper? Drive me to this academy for rich brats and lock me in my room?”

“Something like that,” I say noncommittally, keeping my eyes on the road. “The plan is you stay alive. The details are flexible.”

“And what if I don’t want to be flexible?” she asks, turning her head to face me, her green eyes challenging. “What if I decide to make your life a living hell?”

“Then I’ll make yours worse,” I retort. I glance at her, taking in the defiant set of her jaw. “Don’t test me, Venetia. You won’t like the lessons I teach.”

She doesn’t reply, just turns her head to stare out the window as the manicured perfection of Cheshire gives way to the grey reality of the motorway.

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken threats and the faint, unsettled hiss of the snake in the back.

This is going to be a long fucking year.

But I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.