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

“Is this the place?”

Jude’s voice carries on the wind, doing nothing to interrupt the fucking chaos below.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I say.

Most of the streetlight bulbs are burned out—only three work across the entire street. But as his dark eyes scan the area below, carefully observing the sketchy-as-fuck neighborhood, he looks like a grim reaper with a thirst for blood.

The place reeks of so much poverty, we had to leave Jude’s motorcycle and my car at the gas station to avoid standing out and rented a Hyundai to reach this fuckery of human society.

The stench of piss, vomit, and rotting trash fills the air, thickening and swirling in the night’s stale humidity.

From up here, we have a perfect view of the grimy streets, of the skittering shadows moving like ghosts beneath flickering streetlights.

Small-time dealers lean against the walls, barely hidden in the dark, slipping bags of powder or pills into greedy hands, their eyes darting around, their rancid breath polluting the air. The faint murmur of exchanges is punctuated by the occasional shout or cough from the alleyways or the paper-thin walls. Now and again, there’s the dull clatter of a bottle rolling on the cracked pavement.

A couple of homeless people huddle in a corner, too far gone to care about the fights brewing around them. Their rags hang off them like dead skin, their hollowed-out faces lost in the shadow of a world that doesn’t give a damn about them.

There’s the breaking of glass bottles and a muttered quarrel rising between two small-time gangsters under the glow of a busted neon sign, their voices low but threatening, tension vibrating in the air.

“What a shithole.” Jude grins. “Fitting, really. Rats do live in sewers after all.”

“What are your plans for this one?”

“Big. As usual.” He tilts his head in my direction. “Though it’ll be a challenge to make her life more miserable than the literal hell she lives in.”noveldrama

“I doubt there’s a worse hell than you.”

“Won’t argue with that⁠—”

He purses his lips when a girl trudges down the street, her shoulders hunched. Her light hair is hidden in a hoodie as she quickens her steps, narrowly escaping the two fighting and throwing broken glass at each other.

It takes me a second to figure out she’s our target.

Violet Winters.

“That’s her,” I say. “Back from her late-night shift at some other hellhole.”

Jude says nothing.

His eyes narrow, and I think I catch a spark lighting up the dark brown before it flatlines to its usual deadliness.

“Another fucking one bites the dust,” he mutters, and even though it’s low, his voice is deeper.

His posture is straighter, his gaze more calculating than usual.

Violet stops by the sleeping homeless men no one notices, then she reaches into her plastic bag, pulls out two sandwiches, and puts them on their plates.

She rises to her full height, starts to walk, then halts, fishes a few bills from her pocket, sighs, and places them beneath the sandwiches, carefully hiding them from view.

Jude laughs, the sound low and sinister. “We have a fucking saint on our hands, Kane. The irony.”

“Not really irony. That day, she was the only one to call 911. She’s also the cleanest of the bunch. No matter how deep I dug, I couldn’t find any dirt on her.” I stare up at him. “Honestly, if you leave her to rot, her life will do the honors.”

“Her disgusting innocence will kill her, huh?”

“Possibly.”

“Too bad I don’t believe in innocence. No one from that day is fucking innocent.”

As she hurries toward the house where the landlord rents her and her sister the attic, Violet is swung back by her elbow.

By one of the swaying drunks. Oily haphazard hair, a beer belly, and slurring speech.

“Hi, beauuuutiful. Care for a ride?”

Her face goes red and she attempts to pull her arm away. “Please let me go, Dave.”

Too soft.

Too pleading.

What a lamb.

I’m surprised she’s lasted this long in this type of neighborhood.

“D-Dave, you’re hurting me…please…” She pulls herself free, but she doesn’t make it one step before he catches her from behind, his hands groping everywhere.

Jude takes a step forward.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper. “We’re only here to watch.”

He takes another step when the door to her house blasts open.

A petite girl in a baggy T-shirt rushes outside, in fucking flip-flops, her dark hair gathered in a bandana. And she’s holding a gun in her right hand.

“Let her go, Dave!” she shouts.

He immediately steps away, lifting both hands in the air. “Whoa. Fuuucking hell, you bitch.”

“Fuck you, asshole!” Still pointing the gun at him, she pulls Violet to her side.

I’m standing now.

Even from here, I can see the way she holds herself—defiant, sharp, shoulders squared despite the filth that surrounds her.

Dahlia Thorne. Violet’s foster sister and only form of family.

Her pictures don’t do her justice.

She’s much more of a firecracker in real life.

Her eyes, which I know are hazel, are blazing with fire, her grip on the gun steady.

She’s shooing away the drunk despite his slurred curses. Her sister stands just behind her, wide-eyed and fragile, but Dahlia’s firmly pushing the drunkard back.

She’s been through this before.

Hmm. So she’s the reason Violet hasn’t ended up in a ditch somewhere.

The drunkard lurches toward her again, but she pushes harder, her voice clear and guttural. “Fuck off, Dave! Lay off the booze.”

This time, he stumbles away into the night, lost in the gutter.

She keeps pointing the gun until he’s out of view.

A fighter.

My index finger twitches and I roll my ring. A sudden urge I’ve never had before takes root in my head.

I want to break her, see beneath her skin and find out what makes her tick.

Dahlia wraps her arm around her sister as she guides her to the house. The contrast is clear even in the darkness. Violet is fairer, more demure, and a wallflower. Dahlia is tanner, louder, and has an energy that can be felt from a mile away.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Vi.” She side-hugs her as they walk.

“Where did you get the gun?” her sister scolds.

“Mr. Song paid me to clean it. He wanted to give me ten bucks, but I negotiated my way to twenty. Isn’t that awesome?”

“It’s dangerous. Give it back to him.”

“It’s empty, but Dave is an idiot so—” She stops, then laughs awkwardly.

“Was that your stomach? You didn’t eat all day, did you?” Violet asks and starts to push her away, but Dahlia hugs her tighter.

“You know I hate cooking. I was so busy with school, I forgot.”

“What a child.” Violet sighs and hands her the plastic bag. “Here, I bought you a sandwich. I’ll cook you something for tomorrow.”

“Ugh, I love you, Vi. I also got you something. Guess what?”

“What?”

“The magical patches for back pain! I also learned this new massage technique from Mrs. Liu next door. She swears it will relieve the discomfort.”

Her sister pats her hair, and their voices mingle and end in an indistinguishable chatter as they go into the shack they call home.

I find myself leaning forward, trying to catch one last glimpse of her before she completely disappears.

Dahlia, not Violet.

We came here for Violet, but it’s Dahlia’s smile that’s imprinted in my mind.

In a second, multiple scenarios flash in my brain.

All of them ending with her under my claws.

I face Jude, who’s still watching the house, his eyes dead, his posture rigid. “Tell me your plan concerning Violet.”

He grabs my shoulder, then pushes me sideways. “Stay out of it.”

“Will do. On one condition.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“Don’t touch or implicate the sister.”

Jude’s eyebrows shoot up, but he has enough understanding not to antagonize me when I have control over his weakness.

All right, then.

Dahlia Thorne has just piqued my interest, and that might be the worst mistake of her life.