Beautiful Venom: A Dark Hockey Romance (Vipers Book 1)

The drive to my parents’ house is quick and nearly mindless.

I push my Porsche 911 Turbo S to its limits up the Hill, but I have full control over the vehicle. Which can’t be said about the rest of the fucking night.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel as the house looms like a shadow at the top of Ravenswood Hill—an isolated fortress hidden deep within the trees.

The long, winding driveway is flanked by towering oaks, their branches stretching overhead like skeletal fingers. The car’s tires crunch against the gravel as I approach my old asylum, the sound muted under the oppressive weight of the night. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, mingled with a faint metallic tang that always lingers in the forest.

I kill the engine and step out of the car. Cold bites into my skin, the crisp night air sharp against my face. My breath forms clouds in front of me as I walk toward the house, the soft thud of my shoes on the stone path the only sound breaking the silence. I’ve made this walk countless times, but it still feels like willingly getting trapped in a cave.

As soon as I got into college, I bought a penthouse in the town center just to distance myself from this hellhole, but one can’t escape his last name.

Or the fuckery that comes with it.

The Davenport compound is an expansive mansion made of dark stone, ivy crawling up its weathered exterior like veins. Its windows are black voids, reflecting nothing. The front door is heavy, creaking slightly as I push it open. Inside, the air is cooler and restrictive. The scent of aged wood and leather fills my nostrils, familiar yet suffocating.

Every stone of this house has witnessed generations of power-hungry, duty-bound, and control-freak Davenports. Their portraits line the long hallway I’m walking through, a reminder of the generational wealth and souls sold to the Devil.

The dim orange lighting casts eerie shadows along the walls, the weight of my ancestors’ hollow gazes pressing down on me with each step.

I pause by a tall window that overlooks the dark expanse of the Japanese garden below and the forest in the distance. The rustle of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl drift into the hall. My reflection stares back at me, expressionless and distorted in the glass, like the perfect machine I’ve been shaped into.

No emotions.

No fucking attachment.

No other human being is allowed to have a hold on me.

No. One.

“Kane?”

I slide my left hand into my pocket and slowly rotate to face the woman who gave birth to me.

She’s dressed in a white silk gown and a matching robe, her ghost-like appearance fitting the house.

Helena Davenport was a striking beauty in her youth but now carries the weariness of a life spent in quiet suffering. Her once-lustrous dark hair has thinned and gradually turned silver at the scalp. It’s swept into a simple but elegant bun, a remnant of her former sophistication. Her almond-shaped eyes, icy blue like mine, rarely show emotion, as though the weight of her depression has drained her ability to feel.

She walks silently toward me, her posture always slightly hunched as if burdened by invisible chains. Helena is slender but frail, as though a gust of wind could shatter her. Unless she’s forced to by social obligations, she seldom engages with the world outside her private quarters, where she often remains hidden, staring at the same old book she never finishes or talking to the koi fish in the garden pond.

“Hello, Mother.” I paint a smile on my face and bend down so she can hug me.

Her bony hand taps my back with no emotion. When she speaks, it’s slow, as if every word is a hassle. “It’s been a long time since I last saw you. You grew up and became so handsome.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Call me Mom like when you were young.”

“It’d be better not to.”

Her shoulders droop, but she doesn’t fight it or even insist on it.

Though her beauty has faded, there’s still a delicate grace to her movements, a hollow reflection of what she used to be. My mother’s chronic depression has rendered her emotionally absent, her once-kind spirit dulled by years of belonging to the system.

I used to think Helena was different. She loved me and showered me with the affection her husband was incapable of, but then she retreated into her shell and left me for the sharks.

At the age of six.

After that, I stopped calling her Mom or thinking of her as a mother.

She’s just another pawn in their game.

“Honey.” She places her hand on my arm and it’s like being touched by a ghost. “Mom is sorry.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“I know.”

“Do you blame me?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying that to placate me?”

“Of course not.”noveldrama

Her gaze grows blank, shadows settling within. “You speak just like your father. I don’t like it.”

I pat her head like she did when I was six—after I was waterboarded in Father’s dungeon to near death—and say the same sentence she said to me then, word for word. “You’ll get used to it.”

A sob tears from her throat as I walk past her.

If I were the same Kane from fifteen years ago, I would’ve stopped and consoled her. I would’ve taken her to the garden to watch the koi fish or brought her flowers.

But my ability to excuse her for not being able to protect me or to feel sympathy for her plight has long been stripped from me.

My mother is just an unfortunate woman who got caught in the jaws of power.

She gave birth to a weakling—me—and my father made sure to fix it.

I knock on a dark mahogany door and then push it open.

A drink in hand, my father’s tall figure is standing by the floor-to-ceiling window. He’s dressed in a tailored gray suit, his back straight and his posture upright, unlike the wife he broke.

He tilts his head in my direction, and it’s stunning how much I look like him. Same hair, same eye shape, same bone structure. The only difference between us, other than his grim gray eyes, is the creases of age in his face and his thin lips, which are always in a disapproving line.

Grant Davenport has always been my warden, not my father.

“Kane. You’re here.”

“You called.”

He walks to the liquor cabinet and pours me a drink, the amber color glistening under the study’s yellow lights.

My father offers me the malt whiskey, then takes a seat on the brown leather sofa and motions at the chair across from him.

I sit down, my legs far apart, projecting the commanding, relaxed posture he engrained in me through years of torture.

“Is there a reason behind my presence here, Father?”

“I can’t ask to see my son?”

“You can, but you don’t usually. If there’s a purpose, I’d appreciate it if we could reach it.”

A slight smile tilts his lips. “You’re a true Davenport.”

I hold my glass up. “I’ll drink to that.”

The alcohol tastes like fucking urine down my throat, but I keep up the façade he made sure I’d wear like a second skin.

“I’ll cut to the chase.” Grant leans forward in his seat and swirls the alcohol in his glass. “The Osborns are making a move.”

I raise a brow.

This town was founded by four families: Davenport, Armstrong, Callahan, and Osborn.

For centuries, we held a monopoly on the town, its politics, and people. Not only that, but we made sure to extend our influence to the rest of society.

It’s why Vencor exists. Once you’re backed by the extended wealth and connections the organization offers, your and your offspring’s future is set.

This is why we attract many businessmen, politicians, and the scum of humanity.

However, what the outsiders don’t know is that there has always been an internal rivalry between the four founding families. Each of them wants to rule, to cripple the other families and take hold of the reins.

Reputation is important, so one family has often publicized the other families’ scandals to ruin their social standing within the town and encourage/incite a member vote to restrict their influence.

When we were the target of such an attack less than a year ago because of my uncle who was caught on camera fucking a man, my dad banished him from the family and the state.

Homophobia runs deep in this town, and no gay members are allowed in. Doesn’t matter in what day and age we live. If you’re not straight, you’re not respectable.

Cheating like a champ is okay, though. Grant dipped his dick in all the pussy available and is considered a ‘real man’.

Fucking morons.

At any rate. My uncle’s sexcapades, though they were dealt with mercilessly by my father, still hurt the Davenport standing. Because he didn’t kill him.

I kid you not, my uncle was expected to die for preferring dick over pussy. Talk about the Middle Ages.

My father didn’t spare his life out of brotherly love. He doesn’t have that emotion. It was more because he’s categorically against spilling Davenport blood. It’s a bad omen.

Also, my uncle controls the strongest arms of the Davenport trade operation to this day.

And he has the protection of his boyfriend’s mafia connections, so even the other families need to tread carefully before they lay a hand on him.

I take a sip of my whiskey. “What do the childless Osborns intend to do?”

“Bring back their bastard.”

“Marcus?”

“Correct.”

“I thought illegitimate children were a no-no.”

“They are. Unless it threatens their line. Their children are either dead or dying. Marcus Osborn is the only healthy male heir.”

“So they’re completely eliminating Serena Osborn, the literal reason they still exist, just because she’s…a woman?”

“Yes.” My father’s lips lift in a snarl. “Women have no place in leadership roles anyway.”

Says the man who was threatened by some female members of the Davenport clan after my uncle’s banishment, so he had them expelled from the country.

I swirl my glass as I lean back. “Marcus grew up like a thug in Stantonville, and I’m pretty sure he won’t accept the Osborns’ extended hand after they threw him and his mom out on the street.”

“They’ll find a way to rope him back in.”

“And you’ll allow it?”

“Not if I can help it. However, if there’s a general vote, we can’t deny their rights to bring back a male heir. It’s imperative we make a move before that happens.”

“What do you suggest?”

“He’s the captain of the Stanton Wolves, no? Make sure he doesn’t entertain the idea. Captain to captain.”

“He’s not on my level.”

“Then use someone to do the job for you. Jude or Preston or that Drayton girl who wants to marry you. Women are only objects to be used and an accessory to wear.”

Fucking moron. “Noted.”

“The Osborns can’t get back their standing. Not after the Armstrongs crushed and diminished their power recently. Everyone else is meant to be beneath us.” He stands up and pats my shoulder, his fingers sinking into the flesh. “Remember, Kane. No distractions.”

Images of soft skin, blushed cheeks, and smudged lipstick replay through my mind like an old-grained movie. I can still feel her bright-red lips around my cock and see the mess I made of that lipstick once I was done with her. Her jasmine scent—delicate, haunting—lingers in my senses.

A renewed craving floods over me, and a hunger like I’ve never experienced gnaws through me.

I shouldn’t have touched her again.

I shouldn’t have lost control over a nobody.

And she is a fucking nobody.

But the way she looked at me, those hazel eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and defiance, provoked a primal part of me that I can barely repress.

But I’m done now.

I’m back in control.

“What do you think I am? An amateur?” I tell Grant with an expression that mirrors his.

He nods in approval, assuming we’re on the same side.

We stopped being on the same side the day he stopped being my father.

Every man for himself.

After I become a Founder, I’ll bring this man down.

One more year.

Just one more.

I’ve survived twenty-one years. One more is nothing.

So I truly mean it.

Dahlia Thorne will not be a distraction.

The next morning, I show up at psychology class.

That Dahlia also happens to take.

And no, I didn’t find that out because she’s a distraction. I’m just observant by nature and perceive a lot of things about a lot of people, even when they’re ignorant of the fact.

For instance, Pres here is hiding something, and while I’m not sure what it is yet, I know it’s big enough that he’s slipping.

By slipping, I mean both Jude and I have been tightening our observation of his behavior. And that says something since Jude isn’t in any better shape himself.

Preston and I are sitting near the back of the lecture hall as the rest of the students buzz around, their chatter whirling like insects.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks from my right, twirling a black pen and winking at the brunette sitting in front of us.

I flip through the textbook as if I give any fucks. “I signed up for the class at the beginning of the semester.”

“But you never attend.”

“I am now.”

“Why now of all times?”

“It’s as good a time as any.”

“Yeah, yeah. I bet your entirely rational decision has nothing to do with your irrational actions last night.”

I pause, then slowly flip the page. Preston sent a string of texts to our group chat yesterday, gloating and being a general pain in the ass.

Which I ignored, naturally. And Jude entertained.

“There was nothing irrational.” I skim through the words on the page. “It’s all part of a plan.”

Preston grins, his face transforming from docile to demonic in a heartbeat. “So you wouldn’t mind if I become part of the plan and make my move?”

I lean back against the chair, and even though I appear relaxed, the chatter of the students dissipates and so do the girls’ attempts to catch our attention and flirt.

“You made a move and she shut you down, Pres. Take a hint.”

“That wasn’t a move. That was a suggestion. You haven’t even witnessed my real move.” His grin widens. “Speak of the devil.”

My attention zeroes in on Dahlia, who’s walking into class with a few books in her hand and a tote bag slung over her shoulder. It has an image of a cat wearing sunglasses, and right underneath it, a few words are written in a playful font, ‘Fluff you, you fluffin’ fluff.’

What is this? Middle school?

And yet my gaze studies her, taking her all in as if she’s a drug I’m inhaling deep into my lungs.

And I don’t even do drugs.

Dahlia is dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, a beat-up leather jacket, and her usual white sneakers. Her hair is loose, falling to her shoulders in soft waves, framing the infuriatingly determined expression on her face.

I hate that look.

I hate that she always has it, no matter what she goes through.

It’s what makes me want to break her to pieces.

Smash her.

Ruin her so thoroughly, she’ll never be able to stand up again.

See if she’ll dare to ever look at me.

“You’re drooling,” Preston whispers, then waves. “Thorne! Over here, saved you a seat.”

The entire hall stares at her.

It’s unusual for any of the girls to get to sit with us. Isabella and her minions made sure of it. So they only approach if one of us calls them over.

Dahlia lifts her head and pauses, her forefinger tracing cryptic messages on her thumb.

Like a witch.

Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s capable of making potions of some sort.

Her eyes meet mine and she holds my gaze for one second.

Two…

Three…

On the fourth, she slides her attention to Preston and offers a rehearsed smile as she walks up.

Her steps are unhurried and confident despite the whispers and unwanted attention directed at her. She stops beside us, and instead of walking straight ahead and coming to the vacant seat by my side, she does a whole detour and goes to Preston’s side.

My index finger twitches, but I focus back on the textbook and start to read gibberish about politics.

“Hi,” she whispers, and I feel her gaze on me.

“Over here, lovely.” Preston points at himself like a gigolo. “I’m the one who saved you the seat.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Anything for a beautiful lady.”

I calmly turn the page, even though I didn’t read a single word.

Preston can’t die.

Dahlia is just a pawn.

“Listen,” he continues. “Heard Kane is giving you a hard time. Forget about him. He’s too rigid and aloof and doesn’t know how to treat women. How about you come to me? You can join me and the team next Friday after the game as my personal guest. It’s a super-exclusive party for the close circle.”

I can feel her gaze on me again.

As if she’s waiting for a sign, a word, or anything to help with her decision.

I offer nothing.

Let’s see how desperate she really is.

“Stop looking at him. He wouldn’t mind. Right, Kane?”

“I wouldn’t.” I lift my head and smile. “In fact, you should bring some of your old friends from Stanton River College. It would be so much more…interesting.”

Preston pauses and stares for a few beats. “You went to SRC?”

She nods. “Yeah. I only came to GU this year.”

“Not only did she go to SRC, but she also dated your favorite hockey player, Pres. Who was it again?” It’s my turn to grin. “Right. Osborn. You should invite him to our get-together, Dahlia.”

“I didn’t really date Marcus,” she blurts out. “We went out, like, twice and then figured we didn’t click.”

“But you kind of dated,” I say. “That’s all that matters. Right, Pres?”

Since our first game against the Wolves, Preston has despised Marcus’s guts. Probably because Marcus checks him any chance he gets and doesn’t care about being penalized. Something Preston does care about and, therefore, isn’t as aggressive in his plays.

It also happens that, other than me, Osborn is the only hockey player in the entire league who’s not ruffled by Preston’s provocations that are delivered with a smile. Something that infuriates my friend to no end.

So what does he do? He tries to exploit as many of Osborn’s weaknesses as possible just to bring him down. Doesn’t matter what the score is between the Vipers and the Wolves, Preston and Marcus always seem to have their game inside the game. And it’ll probably remain that way until Preston gets the clear upper hand.

He truly, thoroughly, and categorically refuses to walk away from a situation that doesn’t go as he wishes. He might seem agreeable, but he’s an insufferable son of a bitch when pursuing a goal.

And because of his distaste for the ‘charity team,’ as he calls the Stanton Wolves, he’s beyond disgusted with Osborn’s entourage.

It doesn’t help that Marcus once stole Preston’s girlfriend. Or sort-of girlfriend.

Since then, the moment Preston finds out a girl has slept with his rival, he immediately loses interest. Which is rich coming from Preston, who fucks any girl available.

So that makes Dahlia off-limits.

Permanently.

Dad was right. I’ll use Preston against Marcus and Marcus against Preston.

A win-win.

“Is that so?” he asks with a smile, but his eyes are muted. “Why didn’t you guys click?”

A frown appears between her brows. “He’s kind of an asshole.”

I narrow my eyes. Osborn did something to her.

What? I don’t know, but I’ll find out.

“So is Davenport.” Preston grins. “But you already know that.”

The professor comes in as Dahlia looks at me, opens her mouth, then closes it and stares at her notebook.

Preston pulls out his phone and focuses on it instead of class.

Me?

I keep watching the girl I swore would never be a distraction.

The girl who shouldn’t be in this town in the first place.

My phone beeps and I retrieve it.

Dahlia

Why are you suddenly attending this class?

Me

Do I need a reason to attend a class I’m enrolled in?

A class you’ve never attended.

I’m doing so now.

Are you stalking me?

Do you want to be stalked? Because I’m game.

A tinge of red covers her cheeks, and she shoots me a piercing glare. Too bad there’s no red lipstick today, but any red will do.

I thought you wanted me out of your sight?

I changed my mind. Seems I have to watch you closely after all, my wildflower.