Taming the Viper Viscount (Fated to a Monster Shifter #5)

1. Fiona

Fiona

Inever knew what home felt like until I came to his.

The carriage jolts over the final cobblestone, and I grip my threadbare bag tighter.

My knuckles are white, my palms damp. The iron gates of Penridge Manor loom before me, black against the grey sky, twisted like ancient fingers reaching toward heaven.

Fog clings to the spires above, draping the estate in mystery.

“Here you are, miss,” the driver mutters, not meeting my eyes. “Penridge Manor, as requested.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t offer to help me down. I don’t expect him to. No one has ever offered me anything without expecting payment in return, whether coin or service or simply the pleasure of watching me struggle.

The carriage door creaks as I push it open. My boots hit the wet cobblestones with a sound that seems too loud in the eerie silence. The driver wastes no time turning his horses, eager to leave this place, to leave me here.

I don’t blame him. The rumors about Lord Severin Drake would make anyone flee. He’s desperate to get out of here as soon as possible.

But not me. I have nowhere else to go.

Getting off, I watch the carriage drive away.

I stand before the gates, looking up at the massive structure.

It is a jagged thunderbolt against the gray sky, a lonely yet majestic manor perched on the edge of the cliff that overlooks the village.

My heart pounds against my ribs. Fear coils in my belly, cold and tight.

But beneath it burns something else. Determination.

Hope. The desperate need to belong somewhere, to someone.

At nineteen, I’ve never known warmth or a real home.

Born an orphan, passed around between orphanages and treated like excess baggage, all I’ve longed for is a family of my own.

A permanent home where I can put down roots.

The feeling of love, of warmth, of being accepted and belonging to someone.

This might be my last chance at holding onto a figment of that hope.

The gates open without being touched.

I flinch, then straighten my spine. Magic or mechanism, it doesn’t matter. I’ve come too far to turn back now.

The path to the manor is lined with dead roses, their thorns sharp and black and daunting, but I keep my head facing forward.

I hear the distant hissing of snakes, the caress of the evening wind, the beating of my own heart.

The silhouette of a gardener emerges in the distance, one of Lord Penridge’s few servants.

There are rumors in town that he is monstrous, and nobody who goes to work at his manor lives to tell the tale.

I reach the front door and knock on it, waiting for a response as my mind rewinds through my past.

I remember the cold garrets, the thin blankets, the parish matron’s pinched face telling me I eat too much, that my body takes up too much space, that I’m a burden no one wants to carry.

I was shuffled between three different workhouses before I turned twelve.

Each one colder than the last. Each bed harder. Each meal smaller.

And then there was the rector. Reverend Harlow with his oily smile and his ledger full of names. My name at the top of a new page.

“You are an adult now, Fiona, and we are no longer obligated to take care of you. I have found a suitable place for you.”

What he meant was indentured servitude. Seven years to a textile mill owner in the north who’d already worked two girls to death, according to whispers in the village square. The rector called it divine providence. I called it a death sentence.

The door opens, and an elderly butler’s face fills it. “Lord Penridge isn’t expecting any visitors today.”

“I…I am Ms. Fiona Clarence. I heard the viscount is looking for a bride. If that position is still open, I’d like to be considered.”

The butler’s blue eyes widen. He sizes me up and down, but I stand my ground. I can’t leave here. My money has run out, and anything, even marriage to a monstrous lord, is better than indentured labor.

“I see,” the butler gathers himself. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, Ms. Clarence. I’m not sure you’re the right kind of bride for the viscount.”

He proceeds to close the door, but I push my foot between the frame. “Please, let me at least meet him. I need a place to stay, and he needs a wife.”

The butler looks unsure, but he opens the door. “Very well, let me ask the viscount if he would be willing to meet you.”

“Thank you.” I step inside, soaking in the warmth of the house that’s a contrast to the cold outside.

The butler closes the door, and I follow him down the hallway.

I wait while he goes to fetch Lord Penridge, looking around at the serpent-like images filling the wall.

Lord Penridge must be fascinated with the creatures for everything in the house, from the brass candleholders to the posts on the stairway to the artifacts, bears some type of serpentine reference.

I lean against the wall, catching my breath, clutching my modest bundle of clothes and possessions close to my chest. The house is huge, clean and warm, yet vibrating with centuries of history.

A lady should be living in a place like this, not a nobody like me.

But it is the kind of house one dreams of growing up on the streets—solid, made of stone, opulent and majestic, and most of all, permanent.

“The viscount is ready to see you.” The butler’s voice startles me from the end of the hallway. “Follow me. He’s in his study.”

I quickly get to my feet and follow the butler down the hallway lit with candles and images of Penridge ancestors.

They’re all pale, beautiful, ethereal, and I wonder if the current viscount looks like that too.

The butler knocks and unlocks the door to the study, letting me in.

“I will be waiting outside in case you come screaming.”

His baffling words are followed by the door clicking shut, leaving me among bookshelves, the scent of parchment, and candles burning against the window. The study is dark, but I can make out the outline of a man sitting behind the desk.

“Hello, my lord,” I begin in a low voice, not knowing how to address a viscount. “I am Fiona Clarence, at your service.”

The ceiling is high, high enough to fit a horse or perhaps even an elephant, making me wonder why.

“Ms. Clarence, welcome to Penridge Manor.” The voice is smooth as whisky, and it ignites something low in my core.

A candle flickers on the desk, and I catch my first glimpse of Lord Penridge.

His pale, alabaster skin catches the light, long, unbound black hair falling to his shoulders.

But it is his eyes that captivate me. They are golden with irises that elongate into slits.

When he focuses on me, I could swear they shine like firelight.

I am entranced by his beauty, by the aura he seems to exude by just existing.

He pulls up to standing, his cravat white, his jacket an inky black, his sharp cheekbones visible in the dying light.

“My butler tells me you’ve come to marry me. ”

“Uh…yes.” That’s when I come to a stop, for Lord Penridge isn’t standing.

He’s…moving. I hear the rustle, a distant hissing followed by movement that catches me off-guard.

Emerald scales catch my eye, a long, serpentine tail coiling around the base of the mahogany desk.

I watch as it unwinds, tracing its way back to Lord Penridge’s waist. He doesn’t have legs.

No, he has a tail, a long, sixteen-foot tail that shimmers with iridescent scales similar to a snake.

A yelp escapes my throat as he comes to tower over me, sixteen feet of pure legend. He isn’t just monstrous; he is a monster, a man with the body of a snake. My jaw drops open. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“Shocked, Ms. Clarence?” he asks. “And I haven’t even introduced myself.” His voice is light, but his eyes are penetrating. I feel a pulse between my legs, something I’ve rarely felt before. When he looks at me, I can’t take my eyes off him.

“My lord—”

“Lord Severin Drake,” he corrects me, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards and into the soles of my boots. “Viscount of Penridge. Though I suspect you already knew that much.”

I swallow. My throat clicks dryly. The tail shifts behind him, scales whispering against the polished wood, and I watch it move with a fascination that overrides my fear. Each scale catches the candlelight, emerald bleeding into charcoal, iridescent and alive.

“Yes,” I manage, my eyes fixed on his tail, on how magnificent he looks. He carries himself with a surety, a confidence that befits his station. “I heard you were looking for a bride.”

He goes very still. Those golden slit eyes narrow, studying me the way a predator studies something small and soft that wandered too close.

I feel every inch of his gaze on my body, tracing the curve of my full breasts beneath my threadbare dress, the narrow pinch of my waist, the flare of my hips.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But I am also something else.

Something hot and liquid pools low in my belly, and I press my thighs together beneath my skirts.

“And you,” he says slowly, his voice so seductive to my ears, “wish to be that bride.”

“I do.” The words come out steadier than I expect. “I am of childbearing age, fertile, and can perform household duties to your satisfaction. The villagers say you are looking for someone of my age. It seems a fair arrangement.”

A sound escapes him. Not quite a laugh. Something rougher, darker.

He coils closer, and I have to tilt my head back to keep his face in view.

He is enormous. The top half of him is all broad shoulders and pale, sculpted muscle beneath that black jacket, and the bottom half is that impossible serpent tail that has me fascinated and curious.