Venomous Deceit (Venomous #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

CRESSIDA

Case Notes

Assess how he is in a place that is not work.

People are sweaty. Loud. Drunk. Disgusting, really. The air reeks of spilled beer and desperation as voices clash over who will win. Pushing through the crowd, I bump shoulders with a lot of men, even some women dressed in barely-there clothes as they scream at the two men fighting in the ring.

Something lands on my cheek, and I wipe it away, realizing it’s more than likely someone’s spit, and I instantly recoil in disgust. The air is muggy from so many people crammed together in such a tight space.

The closer I get to the ring, the stronger the metallic scent of blood and stale alcohol becomes, mingling with the unmistakable tang of sex.

Clutching my phone in one hand and my keys in the other, I continue walking until I reach the center, which is roped off.

I’m actually amazed that no one steps over it, as it’s not much of a barrier.

One man, clearly knocked out and not able to walk, is being dragged away by two other men while the announcer, a woman dressed in leather, steps into the middle of the makeshift ring.

She looks like she could be one of the wrestlers on television, the perfect mix of bulky and beautiful.

“Now, we all know our next fighter is a regular here,” she begins. “But his opponent is someone new, someone exciting. He’s been known to win a fight or two, and we are excited to have him.”

Everyone starts clapping, and I watch as people shift to make room for the two men who walk out toward either side of the ring.

Loud cheers echo through the room as the newcomer, dressed only in boxing shorts and his hands wrapped with some type of material, steps into the ring.

And then the cheers grow louder as the reason I’m here tonight comes into view.

Soren Nixon. Screams erupt, more deafening than for his opponent.

I try to push closer to the front, only managing a spot just behind a couple with a ringside view. The woman looks over her shoulder at me, eyes me up and down, and with a raised brow, she asks, “You in the wrong place?”

I look down at my pants, which are part of a suit.

I’d taken the jacket off to blend in, but clearly, I did a terrible job.

I’d popped a few of the buttons on my white shirt to tease a little bit of cleavage, but that apparently hasn’t helped, and sweat is pooling between my breasts in the thick heat.

“I’m fucking the fighter,” I reply with a smile, hoping she won’t ask me anything more.

“Yeah, you and every other girl in here wishes.” She laughs as the man with her says something in her ear, to which she shrugs, then redirects her attention back to the two fighters.

I watch Soren bounce from one foot to the other.

My eyes can’t help but scan over his thick arms, corded with muscles.

His hair is a mess, but somehow fits him perfectly.

He’s lethal-looking up there; there’s no point denying that.

All I have to do is glance around the room—women and men all stare at him, their gazes hungry and riveted on him.

He’s basically sin, wrapped in danger, cloaked in an enigma, and nothing fascinates me more than uncovering people’s secrets, and his I’m very interested in.

I’ve been trying to get dirt on him for over a year, and other than the knowledge that he’s a part of some secret society, I don’t have much else.

I’ve heard a lot of gossip and rumors, but I have no hard facts.

It seems that if anyone talks, they disappear.

And when I mentioned the words “the hunt” to him, his face constricted, and I knew he wanted me gone, like I had just touched on something I should not have.

His silence says more than words ever could.

It’s not that easy to deter me, though.

I’m determined to find out all his secrets.

Hence, why I’m here.

The crowd starts chanting his name, but he doesn’t seem to care.

You can clearly see which fighters are here for the fame and which for the rush.

Soren is all about the rush. He doesn’t glance into the crowd, doesn’t need the validation, while the other fighter can’t stop searching faces for approval.

Soren has already gone somewhere else—locked in, waiting for the moment when blood and adrenaline will take over.

Someone rings a bell, and before another word is spoken, the two fighters move.

Soren glides along the floor as the other guy steps up to him, fists raised.

He swings, and Soren ducks effortlessly.

The other guy keeps throwing punches as the crowd chants Soren’s name and shouts for him to “end him.” The fight has barely started, but the other fighter is already missing his mark, growing sloppy and winded with every swing.

He grunts something at Soren that makes Soren tense before the guy swings at him, this time landing the blow.

But Soren reacts quickly. He steps back and shakes it off before advancing on the other fighter, who’s smirking now because he finally got a hit in.

Soren jabs him in the face, not once, not twice, but three times consecutively.

And the other fighter falls straight onto his ass, the crowd cheering loudly.

“Knockout.”

It’s chanted over and over again.

Soren goes to leave the ring while the other guy struggles and fails to sit up. The woman in front of me screams Soren’s name, making him pause. His eyes flick in our direction before drifting across the room, sharp and searching.

Just when I think he’s about to leave, his attention shifts back in our direction, and his stormy gray eyes land directly on me.

His lip curls up in disgust before he starts walking my way.

I stay where I am, unable to move even if I wanted to.

Having a man as powerful as he is stalking toward you after he just knocked someone out is somewhat intimidating, to say the least. I note a thin drip of blood on his lip as he climbs over the rope and pushes through until he’s standing right in front of me.

The air between us thickens, heavy with adrenaline and something else I can’t quite name, and it feels like everything falls silent before his lips start to move.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses at me, his voice low, rough, smoky and spent—like someone who just finished fucking and lit a cigarette. He’s barely keeping his anger in check as his eyes narrow on me, and I blink to escape the trance his voice puts me in.

“I—” His demeanour makes me lose my words.

“She said she was fucking a fighter,” the woman from earlier shouts above the din of the crowd.

His gray gaze flicks to her, then comes back to me. “Fucking a fighter?” he asks, his lips quirking in amusement. Asshole.

“I was just leaving.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder.

He steps up extremely close, then leans down and gets in my face. “No, you aren’t. You’ve been following me for way too long, Miss Knight.”

“So, you’ve done your research,” I say sarcastically, resisting the urge to rest my hand on my hip, while trying to swallow down nerves that are bubbling up with his closeness.

“Oh, have I ever.” Soren dips his head even closer, his nose skimming past my cheek, his mouth gazing far too close to my ear. “Tell me, who is with your son right now?”

I gasp, my stomach pitching, but it’s fury at his question and the veiled threat behind it that tightens my fists at my sides. In that moment, the people around us fade into nothing, the noise dulling until it’s just him and me. This man has done his digging, and he’s done it well.

I don’t post my son on social media at all because I try to keep him out of the public eye as much as possible.

Not just because I investigate some weird things in my job, but also because his father has requested it.

I’m on good terms with Oliver’s father, and I want to keep it that way.

Even though our relationship didn’t work out, he is a good father.

“How dare you?” I seethe, stepping closer, until I can smell the sweat covering his body.

“Me? How dare I?” He laughs, slowly and mean, as if he already knows how this ends. “Have you forgotten you take every opportunity to follow me and dig into my business?” he reminds me.

“It’s my job. I go where the story is. And you have a story, Soren.”

Someone bumps me from behind, and it pushes me straight into his arms. He grabs me, one hand on my arm, the other settling on my waist, warm and… possessive? He doesn’t push me away. He holds me there, like he’s deciding what to do next.

“And it’s my job to make sure I’m not being stalked by crazy women who want what I have.” I’m acutely aware of his touch right now.

“Believe me, you have nothing I want.”

“Oh, really?” He bends down, and his face is so close to mine that for a moment I think he’ll kiss me. Instead, he shakes his head, huffing out a breath. “So, why do you keep stalking me?”

“Stalk? That’s a word you clearly don’t know the true definition. I attend places where you happen to be, for work,” I explain.

I’m jostled again as the crowd starts to move, and my hands fall to his hard chest. Glancing down at the spot where my skin touches his, I quickly pull them away because his chest is hot to touch.

As I do, he releases me, and I turn away to leave, but his hand shoots out and grips my wrist, his fingers wrapped tightly.

“This is not the end of this discussion.” He tries to say more, but we’re shoved again.

With an exasperated huff, he grabs hold of me, lifts me like I weigh nothing, and tosses me over his shoulder.

I let out a startled cry as the room spins, his shoulder digging into my stomach.

Then he strides straight through the crowd, carrying me like I’m his to take, like possession is the language he speaks fluently, and I’m struggling to translate it.

“Put. Me. Down! What the hell are you even doing?” I scream.

He bounces me—yes, bounces me—on his shoulder, pressing further into my stomach as he strides to an exit that I’m guessing leads to the changing room. Once the door shuts behind us, he sets me down on my feet, then turns to open a locker and pulls out his belongings.

There’s a shower to his right, and without a second thought, he removes his shorts and then walks over and turns it on.

All I can do is stare at his rock-hard ass.

I’m completely confused as to what is going on and why he dragged me back here.

Who gave him the right to put his hands on me like that?

I go to speak, but my words are completely cut off when he turns around with absolutely no shame whatsoever and starts washing his body.

“So, you do know how to shut up,” he says, then proceeds to wash his cock right there in front of me.

“Risky for you to come in here dressed like that. You do know this place is full of criminals.” His gaze rakes over me while he finishes cleaning his cock.

He tilts his head back, and the water streams over his skin, removing all the soap.

I watch in complete fascination as the suds slip all the way down, past his cock to his feet, and then scuttle down the drain.

He has the nicest body I’ve ever seen, all raw strength and sculpted muscle.

Every ridge and line looks carved with precision, his abs taut, his chest broad, his arms thick with the kind of power that only comes from years of discipline, not vanity.

My ex-husband, Noah, was fit—gym-fit, predictable-fit, the kind that came from routine and protein shakes.

But he wasn’t this type of fit. Soren is built for endurance, for impact.

Every inch of him radiates controlled aggression and effortless dominance.

He’s a walking embodiment of danger wrapped in temptation with a pretty little bow on top.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask, even though I know perfectly well now that it’s the wrong choice for a place like this.

“Nothing, if you’re in a damn office.” He turns off the water, then walks straight up to me.

“Your cock is pointing in my direction,” I say, and he smirks.

“You’re in my domain, Miss Knight. If at any time my cock offends you, you could leave instead of just standing there, staring at it.”

He does have a mighty fine cock—thick, impressive, and easily the largest I have ever seen.

“You manhandled me,” I growl, heat rising in my voice.

“I saved you from getting trampled by the crowd. A thank you will suffice.”

He hasn’t made any move to get dressed, standing there completely unfazed and confident in his own skin, as if the very idea of modesty does not apply to him.

“No, I don’t think so.”

He nods, as if he were expecting that answer.

He gets closer, and I brace myself, for him.

But he simply leans around me, his body pressing slightly against mine as he opens what I assume is his locker, and produces a towel.

He says nothing, and neither do I as I turn away from him and he slides on his pants.

But I stare.

I can’t help it.

Because damn.

Every muscle in his back flexes as he moves, and I swear my common sense packs up and leaves.

Because even though I know I shouldn’t be back here, I can’t seem to make my feet move.