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

The morning comes with a strange sense of peace.

And a headache.

A sore throat, too.

I blink my eyes open a couple of times and a smooth ceiling with painted cherry blossoms materializes before me. The stunning 3D details are so well illustrated, I feel as if I’ve been transported into a fairy tale.

Slowly, the rest of the room comes into view and I sit up in the massive bed, holding the black sheet to my chest.

The first thing that hits me is the cold.

Not the icy kind that seeps into my bones, but the kind that creeps into the air, that wraps around me even under the covers. It’s everywhere—spreading from the walls, the floor, and the very space around me.

Kane’s space.

It smells like him. Woodsmoke and leather.

The room is massive, but it feels suffocating. Aside from the cherry blossom ceiling, everything else is devoid of warmth. Dark gray walls swallow the light whole.

Clean lines, minimalistic, with everything perfectly in place. There are no personal touches, no photos, and only a few hockey trophies opposite me.

There’s nothing that says someone lives or breathes here. It’s more like a carefully constructed illusion of control.

I drag my gaze over to the desk in the corner. Stark. Empty. Just like the man who owns it. There’s no clutter, no evidence of life. It’s pristine, as if everything in this room is a testament to how he keeps his world—perfectly ordered.

The only thing that stands out is the window—floor-to-ceiling, overlooking the town that seems to stretch on beyond the horizon. The morning light filters in, but it’s muted, dull, as if even the sun can’t warm this space. Outside, the town buzzes with life, but inside, everything is unnervingly still.

I shift under the sheets, my body aching, my mind trying to piece together how I got here.

The memories filter in like an old grainy movie.

The drugging. The kidnapping. The masked men.

And then…

Kane.

“Oh God.” I cup my mouth, my eyes widening.

Please tell me I didn’t beg Kane to touch me.

Fuck me.

And he didn’t.

He only fingered me and came all over me, but he didn’t fuck me.

Why the hell am I disappointed?

I wish the earth could swallow me alive and spare me the embarrassment.

My eyes land on a change of clothes on the foot of the bed, and I assume that means I can use his shower.

After a few seconds of internally kicking myself, I walk into the sleek bathroom.

I remove the jersey and my underwear, then pause at the view of his dried cum on my stomach. He really loves leaving his mark all over me like an animal.

I should feel mad or something, but I’m more enraged by how I acted.

The elegant shower has so many settings, it takes me a few minutes to figure it out.

After I finish, I towel-dry my hair and put on his Vipers hoodie and sweatpants. I have to roll the waistband a couple of times and tie the drawstring so they’ll remain in place.

The rich smell of food tickles my nostrils as I walk out of the bedroom and down the hallway full of impressionist artwork, then finally reach the living room I mildly recognize from last night.

This place is massive.

And frighteningly expensive.

I move carefully, self-conscious about touching or, worse, knocking over and breaking something. I bet I couldn’t pay for it even if I sold myself on the black market.

My bare feet falter at the doorway of the kitchen, the sight of Kane hitting me like a punch to the gut.

He stands at the stove with his back to me, his broad, muscular frame covered in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips.

The morning light filters through the window, casting a faint glow on the sharp planes of his body, highlighting the lines of his muscles.

But that’s not what steals my breath.

It’s the ink and scars.

As he turns to the side, I see a serpent coiling around his left shoulder, black and detailed, the scales gleaming in the light. Its head rests near his collarbone, mouth open as if ready to strike.

I can’t look away.

My eyes take in every detail of the tattoo. It’s all things Kane—cold, dangerous, poised.

Just beneath the serpent lie jagged, uneven scars, crisscrossing his skin like a roadmap of pain.

While I have no clue who or what put them on him, I know it must’ve been brutal.

My stomach churns at the sight as if I’ve seen a kicked puppy shivering by the side of the road. Only, in this case, I can’t pick him up and carry him to a shelter.

And Kane is by no means a puppy.

How is it possible that someone hurt him enough to cause those scars? He always seems invincible. Untouchable. He’s a hockey god and a monarch both on campus and in town. No one would dare come near him.

But they did.

And he’s been hurt to the point of being permanently marked.noveldrama

More ink wraps around his other arm, intricate lines that form a raven with its wings spread wide across his shoulder, its eyes hollow and dark. Beneath the bird, a small Latin phrase I can’t quite make out curves around his ribs, disappearing into the shadows of his skin.

Everything about him is a warning.

The tattoos, the scars, the way his body moves with silent power like he’s always ready to pounce.

However, right now, he’s just a man standing in a kitchen, scrambling eggs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re up.” The low timbre of his voice carries through the room like a cool breeze.

“Yeah.” I draw a circle on my thumb.

“Sit down. Breakfast is ready.” He turns off the stove and empties the pan’s contents onto a plate with unnerving precision.

No mess in sight.

“Thanks, but I can figure out something to eat on my way home.”

He lifts his gaze, looking at me for the first time this morning.

His icy eyes linger on my baggy clothes, heavy, as if he can see beneath them. It doesn’t help that his woodsmoke scent clings to my skin, wrapping around me like invisible hands.

He walks over to the dining area with two plates and places them on the table. I catch glimpses of the raven’s wing stretching to his chest before he retrieves a plain white T-shirt from the back of a chair and slips it over his head.

Killing my view.

He motions at the chair opposite his. “Sit down, Dahlia.”

“Really, I can…”

“The food is already made. Don’t rebel just for the sake of it, and sit down.”

“I wasn’t rebelling.” I’m just not used to someone cooking for me aside from Vi.

My stomach growls.

Kane lifts a brow. “You were saying?”

I rub my nape, then slowly sit.

The table is absurdly full, and the aroma nearly makes me drool.

Plates are arranged with precision—eggs scrambled to a soft yellow, slices of toast perfectly golden, and a side of fresh fruit that seems to have been cut by a machine. A coffee pot, two high-quality porcelain cups, orange juice, and a milk jug.

There’s jelly and butter, crisp and glistening bacon, and pancakes stacked high, steam still rising off them like some kind of picture-perfect domestic fantasy.

The fact that someone like Kane can make something as normal as breakfast while being fully capable of breaking people’s arms with his bare hands is both astonishing and disturbing.

“Go on, don’t just watch in amazement. Eat.” He speaks as he cuts into his toast and eggs.

I don’t need to be told twice. I dig into the eggs and shamelessly finish most of my plate in no time. This is so good. Honestly. And I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve never had this type of full breakfast before. I’ve been lucky to have coffee and some boiled eggs or something from a convenience store on my way to work or school.

A knife digs into the top of my toast. “Slow down or you’ll suffer from indigestion at best or choke at worst.”

I swallow the contents of my mouth. “Sorry.”

“About what?”

“My table manners. I’m a bit hungry.”

I think a slight smile twitches his lips, but it disappears as he continues eating. “Chew properly and take your time.”

It takes effort not to devour everything in sight and make myself look like a cavewoman.

Kane watching me like some strict parent isn’t helping.

He takes a sip of his juice, his eyes rolling over me like a sensual caress.

Like last night.

Don’t think about it. Just don’t.

“Is it a habit?” he asks.

“What?”

“Eating fast.”

“I guess. I never really have time for food between school and my part-time job.”

“And snooping around. And putting your nose where it doesn’t belong. And being so fucking oblivious about your own safety.”

I let the jelly spoon hang midway to my mouth and glare at him.

“Did I miss something?” he says with an unnerving smile. “Oh, and chatting with ex-boyfriends at my fucking game.”

“I didn’t invite Marcus. He came on his own, and he’s not my ex.”

“Didn’t stop you from hanging on to his every word like all the puck bunnies vying for his attention. Miss him already?”

“That is not true. Marcus is an asshole, and I wouldn’t look twice in his direction in this lifetime. He was just being antagonistic as usual and probably taking notes about your team play before the upcoming game.” I release a breath. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. We’re nothing to each other.”

“You came on my cock and fingers three times; I think we’re something.”

My mouth hangs open and my stomach contracts because of something other than hunger.

He narrows his eyes. “Surely you didn’t think you could beg me to fuck you and then walk away as if nothing happened?”

“I was drugged. It doesn’t count.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “It does for me.”

“So…what are we?”

“What do you want us to be?”

“A partnership?”

“We’re not a business.”

I frown and nibble on my pancake. “Then what? Fuck buddies?”

“If that’s what you want, all you had to do was ask.”

“I don’t want that. You’re the one who seemed to lead me toward that conclusion.”

“You have any objections?”

“Too many to count. Most importantly, I don’t even know you.”

“You will with time. For instance, I don’t appreciate you flirting with other men at my game.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“I have my doubts.”

“I still know next to nothing about you.”

“There’s no need for a résumé if we’re fucking.”

I release a long sigh and drop the pancake to the plate. “Why would you want that type of relationship with me?”

“I don’t want it per se, but it seems that staking a claim is the only way to ensure that no one will dare to touch my things.”

“I’m not a thing.”

“Not a thing. My thing.”

“Well, your staking a claim or not didn’t stop what happened last night.”

His jaw clenches. “It won’t happen again.”

“Let’s say I agree. And then what? You’d ditch me once you’re bored?”

“Possibly.”

“Wow. And they say romance is dead.”

“I don’t intend to romance you, Dahlia. I don’t do that. So if you’re looking for soft love confessions, a box of chocolates, and a bouquet of flowers, walk out right now. But if you prefer rough games and primal impact play, we might be able to work something out.”

My throat dries up and a loud voice inside me tells me to run.

As fast as possible.

But I remain rooted in place.

This is the only way to get close to Kane. Though I’d be a liar if I said some part of me doesn’t come alive at his words.

“Will you hurt me?” I whisper.

“Yes.” The word is like a whip to my sensitive core.

I clench my legs. “How much?”

“To your limits. And I don’t mean the limits you believe exist in your head, but beyond that.”

“Will you give me a heads-up?”

“No.” A slight smirk lifts the corner of his lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”

I gulp, both deep fear and morbid expectation coursing through me. “Can I still use ‘red’ to stop it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then.”

“Red is the only word that can stop me. No, stop it, and I don’t want this will only turn me on. Your fight turns me on.”

“Sick asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

“I heard that. And if I’m sick, what does that make you? Because you’ve been rubbing your legs together the entire time I’ve been painting a picture in your head.”

“I have not.”

He smiles like a predator who’s locked in on his prey. “Now, shouldn’t you thank me for saving you? I’ll retrieve your bike and drop it off at your dorm. I’ll also get Isabella off your back. Permanently.”

“After you let her and who knows how many other people watch you fuck me, I don’t see the point.”

“Watch me fuck you?”

My fingers clench in my lap. “At the initiation. There was a camera, no? Isabella implied that she watched the entire thing.”

“And you believed her?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Isabella is not a Senior member and wasn’t even there. The only members present were me, Preston, Jude, and three others who aren’t on the hockey team.”

“Wow, thanks. At least now I know Isabella didn’t see the video, but the others did.”

“They did not.”

“But…the camera?”

“Disabled.”

“How did she and her brother know, then?”

“Probably Preston spreading rumors in his free time.”

Oh.

A part of me is still skeptical, but when I stare into Kane’s cool eyes, I believe him.

Which I probably shouldn’t, considering the circumstances.

He watches me with intrusive intent.

“What?”

“I’m still waiting for you to thank me for last night.”

“Do you usually save people to be thanked?”

“I don’t usually save people, but in your case, yes, I want to be thanked properly.”

“Thanks,” I say around a bite of pancake.

“That didn’t sound sincere.”

“Well, you should’ve provided clearer instructions. You said to thank you, not to make it sound sincere.”

He narrows his eyes. “That mouth of yours needs to learn some discipline.”

“Or you need to listen to other opinions aside from your own.”

“Not interested. Either things go my way or they crash and burn. No in-between.”

The warning is clear.

I shouldn’t mess with his system.

But something tells me that behind all that control, behind the walls and the cold, there’s chaos.

And somehow, someway, I’ve been pulled into it.

Now, whether I get consumed by it or use it to my advantage depends on how I handle this new situation.

We finish breakfast in relative silence. Kane doesn’t seem to want to talk much, and my attempts to start a conversation are met with monosyllabic replies.

It’s the ice fortress that surrounds him, completely camouflaging him from the outside world.

And me.

As we stand to get ready for school, the doorbell rings.

Kane goes to the screen that shows who’s outside. I trudge behind him and lean sideways to see.

A woman who looks to be in her mid-to-late forties stands there with a weary expression, her cheeks sunken and her icy eyes a replica of Kane’s.

His mother?

I expect him to open the door, but he just clicks on the phone button, his voice completely detached. “Mother. What can I do for you?”

“Honey.” She lifts a box in front of the camera. “I made you your favorite cookies.”

“I don’t eat those anymore.”

Her expression sinks and she shifts her eyes to the side, awkwardly inspecting her surroundings.

“If there isn’t anything else.” He reaches for the hang-up button, but I press the unlock key first.

“Please come in, Mrs. Davenport,” I say before the click of the door sounds in the distance.

Kane’s head tilts in my direction, his eyes narrowing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Inviting your mom in. Why would you talk to her through the intercom as if she’s some sort of stranger?”

“You know, that’s your problem, Dahlia.” He barges into my space, his shoulders crowded with tension, and I step back. “You always meddle in shit that doesn’t concern you.”

My back hits the wall as his mother walks in. “Kane, hon.”

He straightens and meets her halfway, hugging her ceremoniously, his posture rigid. “Hello, Mother.”

I stand there observing the height and size difference between them. The fact that a frail woman like her gave birth to that beast of a son is fascinating.

Up close, her features look like she was a real beauty in her day. The lines on her face are a clue that’s she’s had a rough life.

“And this is…?” She looks at me with curiosity, her eyes much softer and kinder than her son’s.

So it’s not about the color.

“Dahlia,” he says without looking at me.

“Your girlfriend?”

“N—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off with a glare.

Jeez. Talk about intense.

“Hi.” I wipe my sweaty hand on my hoodie and then extend it to her. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Davenport.”

“Call me Helena.” She smiles. “This is the first time I’ve met one of Kane’s girlfriends.”

I peek at Kane, but he has both hands in his pockets while standing erect like a statue.

She offers me the box. “If you’d like, you can have these homemade cookies. They used to be Kane’s favorite. I’m not a good mother and didn’t know he doesn’t like them anymore.”

I’m curious what she means by ‘not a good mother,’ but I obviously can’t ask that, so I accept the box instead. “Thank you. I love cookies.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it.”

God, seeing mothers like her makes me miss my mom. She used to bake the most delicious cookies and even let me mess up the kitchen.

Small fragmented memories.

Lost memories.

Kane doesn’t know he has what many of us wish for. A caring, loving mother.

Someone to fall back on when it feels rough.

“We’re getting ready for school, Mother.” Kane’s flat, unfeeling tone cuts through the moment. “If there isn’t anything else…”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Helena blurts out, seeming as if she’s walking on eggshells around her son.

He even calls her mother. That’s super impersonal.

It’s sad that people like me yearn for a mother that doesn’t exist while Kane still has his mom but doesn’t seem to care about her.

I suspect he cares about no one.

“I’ll walk you out.” I fall in step beside her, but Kane disappears down the hallway as if he doesn’t want to spend one more minute in her company.

Once we’re at the door, I awkwardly say, “I’m sorry about Kane. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“Don’t be.” She smiles softly and pats my hand. “I think you’re a good person, Dahlia. So let me offer you a piece of advice.”

“Yes?”

“Run away while you can. Once you’re in, you’ll never be able to leave.”