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

Months.

It’s been months of constant, careful plotting, thorough calculating, and painstaking patience.

Months.

And today’s finally the day.

I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans as I park my bike in a parking space and power walk through the dimly lit streets. I actually followed Kane’s advice and came in my most relaxed outfit—a plain gray T-shirt and my comfiest sneakers that are slightly beat up.

If I said I wasn’t scared, it’d be a flat-out lie.

I’ve only heard rumors about Vencor’s initiations, and they all mention a grueling interrogation process, having to endure physical and mental tests, and being stripped bare of one’s humanity.

But they all remain rumors.

No one but Vencor members know the truth.

Despite the slight tremor that invades my limbs and the heaviness in my steps, no amount of fear will deter me from bringing Violet justice.

Violet and I aren’t blood-related, but we met in a foster home—one of the most abusive ones I lived in—and we bonded. She protected me when the man who was supposed to take care of us got too drunk on liquor and hit us or when his wife tried to get me addicted to meth.

Then one night, Violet took my hand and suggested we escape. We were homeless for a while, and she refused to take us to a shelter or anywhere else in the care system. Neither of us trusted it. I was maybe twelve at the time and she was thirteen.

For some reason, our previous foster parents, Martha and Gerald, didn’t report us as runaways or missing right away, and Violet said she ‘took care of it.’ I’m not sure how she convinced them, but something told me it was because of the black eye she was sporting, and I wanted to go back and kill them.

But the last thing we wanted was to be found and shoved into another abusive foster home.

Thankfully, Violet looked older than her age, so she got a job at some shady restaurant and begged the owner lady to let me study in the storage room while she worked the evening shift.

She fed me, made sure I was keeping my grades up, and took me for late-night walks. She’s my mom, my dad, my sister, and my savior.

She shielded me when she was in the cold. She fed me and stayed hungry herself.

She was the warm shelter kids like me don’t get.

Until she was snatched away from me.

Because of Vencor.

They cut off my lifeline, and now, I have nothing left except the need for cold-blooded revenge.

The light dims further until only a few lit bulbs remain. They’re so far apart and barely there that I have to rely on my phone’s flashlight to see the path ahead.

I follow the directions Kane sent me, which becomes a challenge when the lights gradually disappear, especially when I start taking twists and turns down an uneven path.

Finally, I arrive at the old three-story building that’s no longer in use. The entrance to the front door is hidden in plain sight, concealed behind an overgrown iron gate that’s covered with chaotic ivy and large bushes.

The stone appears chipped in a few places, and the upper level looks as if it’s about to fall apart, the ground floor creaking under the unstable weight.

Six men in black leather jackets and pants stand on either side of the entrance. All of them wear silver masks with subtle engraved talon and feather details that shine under the low orange light coming from the rusty lamps.

I slow to a halt, unsure whether or not I can go inside.

The door opens with a loud squeak in the silent night, and I startle.

“Can I go in?” I ask the statue-like men, but I get no reply.

The eerie quiet is deafening.

I clutch my phone tight as I creep toward the entrance, figuring they’ll stop me if I’m not supposed to go inside. A strange feeling of disappointment hits me when I scan the masked faces and don’t feel Kane’s presence.

I look at their hands, but they’re all gloved in brown leather, so I can’t see if they’re wearing black rings.

My steps are careful as I slide through the ajar beat-up wooden door. The lighting is slightly better inside, but it’s still dim, almost candle-like. Stretched out in front of me is a medium-sized reception area that looks similar to an outdated hotel lobby, with stained carpet, a worn-out tall desk, and a dark-green sofa that’s probably behind the smell of dust and mildew that’s permeating the air.

I notice four doors, one in each corner, painted in different colors—red, black, gray, and white.

A shadow gets caught in my peripheral vision and I spin around, my sense of alert hiking.

A woman appears in front of me, wearing the same mask and gloves as the men outside. However, she’s in a black dress and a tight brown leather corset.

She stretches out her hand in the direction of my phone that I’ve been gripping tightly. I take one last look at the notifications in the hope of finding a text from Kane.

When I see nothing, I reluctantly give her the phone. She places it on the desk and mechanically pats me down. I try to sniff her, but I only smell the generic leather. I can’t even tell the true color of her eyes due to the poor lighting. I do catch a glimpse of a silver serpentine chain with a talon pendant hanging from her neck.

She removes my fitness watch and places it beside my phone, then takes a step back, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Am I free to go?” My voice is heightened in the silence, too loud for my own ears.

She says nothing, looking ahead as if she’s a statue.

“I assume I can choose whichever door to go through?”

No reply.

All right, then.

I avoid the red and black doors for obvious reasons. The colors themselves are ominous. I also vote against white. It might seem safe on paper, but if it’s a psychological trick and the colors are reversed, I don’t want to end up facing the worst trial.

With a deep breath, I stride to the gray door and then stop.

I recall something about what Kane said. Only Senior members wear black rings. I assume black is associated with them. Silver, which is the equivalent of gray on this occasion, is probably associated with the woman and the men outside, like their masks. They’re not Seniors if they’re tasked with mundane things like supervision and security.

At the last second, I change direction to the black door. Maybe Kane is behind it, and while I’m not sure if he’d help, I’d at least see a familiar face.

When I turn the knob, a loud creak echoes in the air, making goosebumps erupt on my bare arms. I steal one last look behind me to find the woman staring at me. Unblinking. Completely statuesque.

I gulp and go inside.

A low light hangs from the ceiling showing long stairs. I start going down and when I look back, the door I came through is closed.

I go down for some time and when I arrive at the bottom, I find another metal door. I carefully open it and walk in.

Deep darkness envelops me as the door slowly shuts behind me. The low creak is followed by a soft click that thuds in my chest.

I can’t see anything.

Not even my hands.

I reach behind me for the knob and touch something cold and flat. Like a small metal plate. I feel around, my short nails getting stuck in the cracks of the wood, but there’s no way to open it.

A shattered exhale slips through my lips, and I remain completely still, barely sensing my own existence.

I’m stuck.

I don’t like feeling stuck.

Not after I was trapped in the car with my dead parents for several hours before I was found.

I’d like to think I’ve gotten over my slight claustrophobia, but the more I look and see nothing, the tighter my chest squeezes.

Drip.

I startle, searching around like a caged animal.

Drip.

Water. It has to be water coming from somewhere.

Cold air bites into my skin and the pungent smell of moist earth, along with the faint stench of something rotten, linger in my nostrils.

I stretch my arms out on either side of me and touch damp stone.

A tunnel?

A cave?

Carefully, I take one step forward, then follow with another while still touching the stone. The silence is oppressive, only broken by the occasional drip of water ringing in the darkness. Each footstep is loud, almost as if the walls are echoing them.

Once I’m sure the ground is safe, I walk faster. My clothes cling uncomfortably to my skin and my heart beats loudly. So loudly, I can only hear the thumping in my ears.

Someone once said it isn’t darkness that’s scary, it’s what lurks inside it.

So despite the complete annihilation of my vision, I still squint and blink and struggle to make out something, anything around me.

I’m not sure how long I walk, but it’s long enough that I feel the strain and my throat turns dry. But maybe that’s because of how hyperaware I am. As if I’m waiting for one of those horror-ride skeletons to jump out at me.

Though I could handle that or any other horror-esque scenarios. Fictional jump scares don’t faze me. Not when I spent my childhood surrounded by actual monsters.

I walk farther, still feeling the walls, my heartbeat finally dropping to a relatively normal rhythm.

My trial is probably at the end of the tunnel. The sooner I get there, the better.

“Dahlia?”

I still, my breathing deepening, and a shocking shiver slashes through me.

M-Mom?

I haven’t heard that voice since I was six. It’s been over fifteen years. After my parents’ deaths, I hopped from one home to another, meeting one foster ‘mom’ after the other until they all blended together, but I could never forget Mama’s voice.

The softness, the affection, and the slight exhaustion from spending late nights sewing dresses.

No one has ever loved me like Mama.

“Dahlia, honey?” She speaks again in the darkness, like an angel.

I bite my lower lip to keep from calling out to her and telling her how much I miss her.

This is a trial. They’re trying to mess with me.

A strong light shines in front of me and I squint, then close my eyes. An orange film forms behind my eyelids as my sight gradually adjusts.

The sound of giggles reaches me, and I slowly open my eyes again. There’s a light before me, projected into a wall, that shows an old video of my toddler years. I look close to one year old.

My chubby little hands grab onto a leather sofa covered with a colorful quilt, my brown curls chaotic and lighter than they are now.

“Come on, honey. Come to Mama.”

My vision blurs when the camera shifts to Mom, who’s sitting on her knees. It’s been such a long time, I almost forgot what she looked like. After the accident, the bank foreclosed on the house, then auctioned most everything in it and threw away the rest or sent it to an old distant aunt who refused to take me in. I didn’t even get a picture of my parents.

The only image I have of them is in my head.

After so many years, it’s gotten distorted and changed, but as I watch the video, I can finally see my mama again.

I look so much like her, though her skin was a bit tanner, her hair lighter, her eyes brown, while mine are hazel.

She was a beautiful woman, but what I recall the most about her is the stunning smile that never left her lips, no matter how hard things got.

“Come, baby. One more step,” she encourages, both her hands stretched out.

Little me finally takes the leap. I reach toward her and walk like a drunken man. “Mama…Mama…”

“Yes!” She squeals as I take a few steps and fall into her embrace. Mom hugs me tight, stands up, then whirls me in the air as I giggle uncontrollably. She stares at the camera, tears of joy forming a sheen in her eyes. “Did you see that, hon? Dahl’s first steps.”

“I did.” Dad’s voice sounds deeper than I recall. The video zooms in, slightly shaky, as he approaches us. The last still is a blurry image of Dad with his arm around Mom and me, his face unclear.

My hand reaches out of its own accord as a tear slides down my face. I’ve never seen this video. I wasn’t even aware it existed. I don’t know what I want to do. Touch the screen? Touch them?

Hug their image?

The still flickers on the screen and then a darker video appears. Road surveillance footage. My lips part as I see a grainy image of a car flipped beside a cliff. An older blue Toyota.

Dad’s car.

My ears buzz when the video quickly rewinds, and I watch as a truck comes from the opposite direction, the bright headlights and the loud horn nearly splitting my skull open. Our car swerves and I drop to my knees on the cold, hard ground, slamming both palms to my ears to keep from hearing the crash.

But the sound penetrates my hands and explodes in my ears so loudly, I scream.

In a fraction of a second, I’m transported to fifteen years ago.

“Daddy, look, I made my doll a dress,” I gloat, bouncing up and down in the back seat. “Hey, look, look…”

“Your daddy is driving, Dahl.” Mom looks back and strokes my hair. “Don’t distract him, okay?”

“But I wanna show my doll.” I pout, then shove my doll against the back of his seat. “Daddy, look.”

“Stop it, Dahl,” Mom scolds harshly.

My lips tremble and I start to cry, hugging my doll tightly to my chest.

“Don’t cry, baby.” Dad glances at me. “Your doll looks beautiful.”

“Really?” I sniffle between tears.

“Yes, but not more beautiful than you⁠—”

“John!!!” Mom screams as blinding white light flashes through the car and a loud crash echoes in the air.

The last thing I see is a red mist and vacant, lifeless eyes.

I’m hugging myself on the damp ground, my sweaty fingers shaking, my face full of tears as I watch the video on the screen on a loop.

“Why did you kill us, Dahlia?” Mom’s sad voice asks. “Why?”

“I didn’t mean to… I…I… Mom…I didn’t know.”

“You disappointed me, Dahl,” Dad’s voice speaks so close to my ear, I shiver all over.

“Dad…” I whisper and turn around, but there’s no one there.

All of my surroundings are filled with projection over projection of the accident. In front of me, behind me, on the walls, on the floor.

My nightmare is repeated in grotesque, vivid detail. Every time the crash echoes in the air, I scream. Every time, I smell the burning rubber on the road and taste the tangy, metallic blood of my parents.

My doll is bent, stained with my own blood. The beautiful tulle dress I made is torn and smudged with red.

I hug my knees to my chest, hide my face in them, and slam my eyes shut to ward off the gruesome images.

But I still can’t block out the haunting sounds from my darkest nightmare.

The crash. The screams. The sirens.

The distorted medics’ voices.

Make it stop.

Someone make it stop!

Please.

No one does.

My whole life, I’ve learned that if I want something done, I have to do it myself.

Knights in shining armor don’t exist outside of fiction.

Luck has never been on my side and never will be.

The psychological torture repeats in a cycle of despair that erodes my sanity. I stop feeling my limbs as the shadows of the past stretch and contort, turning into new cruel whispers each time the scene replays.

You killed your parents. Why are you alive?

You should’ve died, not them.

If you weren’t a spoiled brat, none of this would’ve happened.

You’re the reason they’re gone. Why do you feel sorry for yourself? You’re not the victim here. Stop the main character energy.

Murderer…

Murderer.

Murderer!

“No!” I scream, jumping up into a standing position, wiping at the snot and tears covering my face. Adrenaline burns in my veins as I stare at the scene, unblinking, my hands fisted, my legs shoulder width apart. It hurts, but I don’t look away. It hurts, but I watch it again from start to finish.

My parents are gone, but Violet isn’t—at least, not completely.

Violet needs me.

And if I have to go through this torture for her, so be it.

When the video comes to an end, I ready myself for another round, another visual and auditory assault, but the projections disappear completely.

A small flickering wall lamp switches on.

I’m indeed in a tunnel. Through my teary vision, I make out a blinking camera light in the ceiling and stare at whoever is watching as I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands.

You won’t break me.

No one will.

“Congratulations, Dahlia,” a man says, his suave voice filling the tunnel. “You’ve passed the mental test, but there’s still the physical test left. Correction. It’s both mental and physical. Since this is a trial, if you say the safe word you agreed to with the Senior member who invited you, everything stops. You’ll be escorted out and banished from campus and town. As long as you stay quiet after that, you get to keep your life. If you don’t… I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

I gulp, searching my surroundings. I already told Kane I wouldn’t say the word, and that won’t change now.

Nothing is worse than reliving my worst nightmare.

A door opens somewhere to the right, and I squint, but I can’t see its exact location in the shadows.

A tall silhouette walks toward me—a man, judging by his build and height. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans, and army boots. His hands are covered with black leather gloves and his face is hidden by a black mask that resembles a plague doctor. However, this one has sharp, unsettling serpentine and talon details swirling in the contours like a curse.

He stands there, his height eating up the small space as he stares me down. His chilling gaze seeps through my clothes and strikes my skin.

I look to either side of me, searching for an escape. He remains motionless, as if waiting for my next move.

The tunnel extends as far as my eyes can see. No ending in sight.

But maybe that’s the point.

My limbs are still shaking from the assault of the video, but I gather my strength, turn around, and run.

I don’t even make it two steps before my legs are grabbed. The ground shifts and I fall with a thud, my knee hitting the dirt floor so hard, I feel it in my bones.

A large weight lands on top of me, pushing me down and forcing every breath out of my lungs.

I squirm and buck against him. I don’t know what’s come over me or if I should even be fighting.

It’s a survival instinct. Innate and unconscious.

Deep down, I know I can’t beat someone this much larger than me, but that won’t stop me from trying.

A gloved hand wraps around my throat, lifting and twisting my face up until I’m looking at the gruesome mask.

“Red. Say it or submit.”noveldrama

My eyes widen.

Kane.

It’s Kane’s voice.