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

The DNA samples don’t match.

This applies to the three guys whose DNA I stole at the party.

Price’s, Novak’s, and Kane’s.

So after he fucked my face and came down my throat three days ago, I kept some of his cum in my mouth and then bagged it.

I’d like to think that’s the only reason I let him use me like a rag doll, but the throbbing between my legs at the time and long after I got home testify against that theory.

At any rate, the fact that his DNA wasn’t present under my sister’s fingernails was a relief I didn’t know I needed until I stagger against the laboratory counter.

Damn it.

Is his innocence that important to me?

Why?

Because I burn for his touch? Because his mere presence unsettles me to the point of losing control?

That doesn’t matter, though. I’ve had sex before. Sex is physical and doesn’t mean anything.

So why the hell…?

I stare at the DNA result sheet and then tuck it into my lab coat. The last thing I need is to lose this scholarship for performing illegal DNA tests. And targeting the town’s hockey gods.

Everyone here seems obsessed with the team. Even Mrs. Hales was asking if I could get Preston’s autograph since we go to the same college. Apparently, he’s the most popular and effortlessly attracts everyone.

Kane is second because he’s just so well-mannered and dreamy—Mrs. Hales’s words, not mine.

Dreamy, my ass. He just wears the mask so well. Even I was fooled by him in the beginning.

Jude, on the other hand, is a dark horse on and off the rink. There’s a brutality in him that only attracts a certain category of people. He also doesn’t make an effort to wear a smile like Preston or a mask like Kane.

What you see is basically what you get.

Since he and the rest of the team are my next targets for the DNA hunt, I need to get closer to the team.

After that, I’ll figure out a way to influence Kane to make me an active Vencor member. Thus far, he’s shot down any of my attempts to be active in the organization.

When I tried to befriend Preston, Kane somehow managed to say the right words to make his friend lose complete interest in my company.

I knew that asshole Marcus was trouble. I should’ve never gone out with him in the first place. At the time, his last name didn’t really mean much to me, and I didn’t want to believe the rumors floating around about him and his dark past.

Little did I know that he’s, in fact, a major psycho.

I’m not sure how Kane got that information about my dating life, and it’s made me more paranoid.

Just how much does he know about me?

How long can I fool him?

Hell, can I even fool him?

With his unreadable personality and unpredictable actions, he’s the one who fools people, not the other way around.

Still, the only way to get close to the team and him is to make him trust me.

At any cost.

He did defend me the other day at Drayton’s party, so it’s not like he doesn’t care at all. It’s a good start.

Though I believe he cares more about degradation through sex. Which I can tolerate.

Liar.

My thighs clench at the thought of it. And I’m truly struggling to come to terms with the fact that I enjoy something so sick.

A loud vibrating sound echoes on the empty laboratory table and I flinch out of my thoughts.

My posture straightens when I see the text. Why does the mere sight of his name make me hyperaware?

Kane

You signed up for the motorcycle club.

Me

Yes, and? Is this another announcement of your stalkerish tendencies?

There’s no stalking involved. I’m openly watching you. And you won’t be going to the club.

Why not?

Because you’re only there for Jude, and I can see your little tricks from a mile away. Cut it out.

And if I don’t?

Then I’ll have to act on my warnings.

I lean my back against the counter. Something must’ve hit me in the head since that initiation because I type:

Me: And how will you act on them?

Kane: Ask your sore cunt and bruised jaw. They know exactly how I react to disobedience.

Me: I forgot. Perhaps you didn’t make that much of an impression.

Kane: Or perhaps if I were to come there and touch you, I’d find you dripping wet at the thought of being used by me, Dahlia. You’re burning for it. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me.

He’s right, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Me: You’re not that special. Trust me, I’ve had better dick.

Kane: Nice try. These little games don’t work on me.

Me: No games. Just facts 😉

Kane: The only fact I know is that if I were to touch you, you’d melt in my arms. You’re a slut for my cock, wildflower.

Me: And you’re a simp for my pussy, but you don’t see me stating the obvious.

Kane: You’re just a hole I use. Nothing more.

My lips purse and I hate the slight thud behind my rib cage.

Me: No real holes were used during the making of this movie. At least, not in the past…couple of weeks. No wonder you’re not that special.

Kane: Dahlia.

Me: Yeah?

Kane: I told you not to tempt me.

Me: I’m just having a civil conversation.

Kane: You’re only civil when you’re silent. Which happens when you’re choking on my cock.

Me: You’re such a pervert.

Kane: I know. I spent the last couple of days imagining your cunt strangling my cock as you screamed and cried. I want to see your tears again.

My hand trembles around the phone. This…sick asshole.

Me: Hard pass. I don’t like pain.

Kane: Questionable. Anyway, come watch the game tomorrow. I’ll send you a ticket.

Me: Why would I go?

Kane: I thought you were my fan, no?

Me: Maybe I changed my mind.

Kane: It’s adorable to think you can.

Me: People change their minds all the time.

Kane: Be there.

Then he attaches a ticket for a seat at the very front. I’ve never sat at the front at any game, let alone for an extremely sought-after team like the Vipers.

Not that I will follow his order and go there just because he told me to.

So I came anyway.

Doesn’t matter how much I despise Kane’s attitude on a personal level. I still need him to trust me and allow me to get closer.

I even bought his jersey from the merch store outside and gave myself a major eye roll.

Tonight’s game is against the Blackhawks, one of the fiercest teams in the league and Michigan’s reigning champion.

Vipers Arena is packed full of people gaping at witnessing two titans going at each other. They buzz with uncontained excitement every time there’s contact.

The rink pulses with life, the roar of the crowd vibrating in the air like an electric hum, which slips into my bones.

The cold air bites at my skin, even through layers of clothes. Like everyone else, my attention is glued to the game. The sharp staccato of skates slicing the ice, the thud of bodies crashing together—it all melds into a chaotic symphony of power and violence.

However, the game isn’t really on my radar.

I’m more focused on the man who commands the ice like a warrior.

Kane.

And I realize the way he plays is an accurate representation of his personality. He moves like a predator, calculating every motion with deadly precision. His tall frame cuts through the opposing players, his ice-blue eyes never leaving the puck.

There’s something about the way he plays, his presence magnetic, impossible to ignore. His skates scraping against the ice is like a knife through my senses. The cold sharpness of his movements slices through the air, making my pulse quicken.

The puck glides across the ice, and Kane seizes it. His stick connects with the puck in a single, fluid motion that makes the crowd go wild. Even I find myself leaning forward in my seat. Every muscle in his body seems attuned to the game, the way he owns the ice, the control he wields—it’s intoxicating.

No. Terrifying.

There’s a calmness to him, an authoritativeness that contrasts with the chaos of the game. Every time he moves, subtle power peeks from beneath the surface. He finally shoots, and it’s a perfect strike, the puck slamming into the net with a sharp crack that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

Kane doesn’t react. His face remains unreadable, cold, as he skates back to center ice, not acknowledging the cheers.

I think I see him glancing in my direction, but it’s fleeting and probably a figment of my imagination.

“We meet again, Dahlia.”

The low, disturbingly malicious voice sets my nerves on edge. I’ve been so focused on Kane, I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings, so I didn’t notice when a demon personified approached me.

“What are you doing here, Marcus?” I speak over the crowd’s chaos.

He sits beside me when I swear the seat was occupied by an older lady not ten minutes ago. I consider moving to another seat, but the arena is packed full of people.

“Is that any way to greet me, sweetheart?”noveldrama

“I’m not your sweetheart,” I grit out from between clenched teeth.

He smiles, but it’s predatory at best.

Marcus Osborn is an unsettling presence, a force of chaotic energy barely contained within his tall, lean frame. His angular face is sharp, with high cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass, but it’s his eyes that reveal the depth of his brutality. His dark, nearly black eyes are cold and hollow, yet there’s a flicker of wildness within them, like a storm that’s constantly brewing.

A thin scar slices across his right eyebrow, a constant reminder of the violence he both endures and inflicts. His lips, often set in a cruel smirk, hint at his enjoyment of the pain he causes and the thrill he gets from pushing others to their limits.

Like he once did to me.

“Is that why you’re wearing Davenport’s shirt? You sure know how to climb the ranks.”

“What I do with my life is none of your business.”

“I know. I’m just disappointed in your life choices.”

“Better than the life choices you had in mind for me.”

He smiles but says nothing.

I notice angry purple bruises on his knuckles. Though not as bulky as Jude, Marcus has a wiry, muscular build, and he’s no stranger to physical confrontations, his preferred method of communication often being fists—or worse.

He’s just bad news all around.

I trace circles on my thumb. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching the game. Like you.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. The Vipers and the Blackhawks are our rivals, remember? Or did you forget where you came from once you fraternized with the posh rich boys?”

I open my mouth to say something when the boards in front of me rattle with a violent impact. My eyes widen as they clash with Kane’s. He just shoved a Blackhawks player so harshly, I’m surprised the boards didn’t splinter to pieces.

He holds my gaze for a brief moment. Chilly, expressionless—but something flickers there, something dark and intense that renders me motionless.

The referee doesn’t call a penalty, and the Vipers snatch the puck back. Kane skates to the offense, resuming the fast-paced game.

“Hmm.” Marcus scratches his chin as he watches me. “Interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Davenport doesn’t check violently. He’s usually extremely sharp and intervenes in a clean way. I must say, I prefer this version of him.”

I frown, but before I can consider Marcus’s words, he waves at the rink and mouths something I’m not able to read in time.

When I follow his field of vision, I spot Preston glaring back for a fraction of a second before he skates with the puck.

Preston is a shadow on the ice. He doesn’t crash or shove, but his presence is still felt. There’s a smoothness to his movements, an effortless grace as he navigates the rink, weaving through players with ease. He’s not loud or aggressive, but his style is lethal in its precision. Every pass and every play is strategic, as if he’s thinking five steps ahead of everyone else.

While Jude crashes into the opposing players with a force that sends bodies flying into the boards, Preston avoids that at all costs.

“Hey, Marcus?”

“Hmm?” he says without taking his calculative gaze from the game.

“Do you know Preston?”

He tilts his head in my direction with a faint pull at the edge of his lips. “Why? He said he knows me?”

“No. But he kind of dislikes me since he found out we were together at some point.”

A slow, malicious grin stretches his mouth. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. What have you done?”

“Moi? Nothing.”

“You want me to believe he dislikes you for no reason?”

“Oh, there’s a reason. He can’t beat or ruffle me, no matter what tactic he uses. It pisses him off. And I happen to enjoy seeing the little prince out of his depth.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“What else would there be? People like us don’t run in the same circles as them, sweetheart.” All his humor disappears. “You’ll figure that out in your own time.”

After that, he grows silent, more focused on the rink.

I’m distracted as well when the game turns into a literal war. A brutal clash of power and strategy.

Through it all, it’s Kane who holds me hostage. Even in the chaos, his control is absolute, and the way he commands the ice is mesmerizing. Every time he moves, it’s like a pulse through my body, reminding me of how dangerously close I plan to get to someone who should terrify me.

And yet the more I watch him, the stronger my sense of trepidation becomes.

What type of upbringing did Kane have that caused him to turn into a literal ice machine? Is it even possible for someone to be so technically perfect? I’m not sure if it’s because I only recently got into hockey, but I haven’t seen him make any mistakes.

After the game ends in the Vipers’ favor—barely—the players skate to the bench area and then to the locker room.

Kane follows with a hand on Preston’s neck as he speaks close to his ear, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

At the beginning of the game, the first place he looked as soon as he got on the ice was at me. I even think I saw an expression of satisfaction.

But now, he leaves the rink without a look behind.

My heart sinks.

Why the hell did he ask me to come watch him if he was going to give me the cold shoulder? Is this another tactic?

As the arena starts to empty out, the crowd talking animatedly, Marcus and I don’t move.

He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but the last thing I want is to stay near the asshole. The only reason I stay is because I want to milk him for information.

I face him. “Hey, Marcus.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a center like Kane, but how come you two play differently?”

He spears both hands behind his head and leans back against the seat. “So now you’re an expert in hockey? I swear you didn’t even know how many players were on a team a few months ago.”

“People learn. So tell me, what’s the difference between the two of you?”

“What did you notice that’s different?”

“Kane’s movements are smoother.”

“He’s boringly technical. Just like Armstrong. They learned hockey from expensive coaches and camps that could only be afforded by their generational wealth. They feel violence is beneath them, so they steer clear of it, no matter what. They should play tennis instead of hockey.”

“But Jude is violent.”

“He’s different. He has inborn talent that couldn’t be killed by expensive coaches. He’s the only one worthy of respect out of the three. Probably the one who dragged them into the game as well.”

“Am I right to think acquiring such technical skills means rigorous training and a strict routine?”

“Yes. Heard they spent their childhood in an all-boys boarding school, where they were taught…severe discipline.”

My scalp tingles with unease “How were they taught?”

“Ask him.” He smirks. “If you dare.”

Before I can probe some more, he stands up and walks out.

Some of the girls notice him and follow after him like moths to flames. I mean, I know Marcus is strikingly handsome with his whole je ne sais quoi attitude, but there should be some sense of loyalty to our college. Marcus is like our team’s archnemesis.

I mean the Vipers’.

It’s not our team.

After sticking around for some time until the arena empties, I’m asked to leave by security.

On my way out, I check my texts, and my mood sours when I find nothing from Kane.

I should’ve spent my precious time by Violet’s side instead of catering to his stupid whims.

My steps are lethargic as I head to the parking lot where I left my bike. It’s empty now except for a couple of cars. The light is dimmer here, and the silence lingers like a layer of smog.

I quicken my pace toward the bike parking area and pause.

The bike isn’t there.

Someone stole it?

It’s not even that great. I kick the pole, then groan in pain.

Goddamn it. My bike is my only mode of transportation. I don’t have the money to buy another one.

A car stops beside me and I look up, my brow furrowing.

A golden Rolls-Royce’s back window rolls down to reveal Isabella Drayton.

Her hair is gathered in a ponytail and she looks down on me as if I’m the dirt beneath her car’s tires. “What’s up, Charity? Can’t find a ride home?”

“My name is Dahlia and my business is none of yours.”

“I was going to offer you a ride. As charity, Charity.”

“No, thanks.” I search my surroundings just in case the bike was moved.

“You don’t get to refuse me. When I order, you only comply, bitch.”

I swing around toward her, about to give her a piece of my mind, but a shadow appears from behind me.

Before I can figure out who it is, something pricks my arm.

I reach for the scalpel I always keep in my tote bag, but it falls to the ground.

“You—” My tongue stops moving and my vision blurs.

The last thing I see is Isabella’s vicious smile as the world goes black.