3. Vipers Obsession
3
VIPER'S OBSESSION
~MASKED REAPER~
T he scent hits me first—always the scent.
Sweet, intoxicating, complex. Like honey laced with nightshade, promising pleasure and danger in equal measure. It wafts through the basement warehouse where I've been methodically sharpening my tools for the night ahead, cutting through the metallic tang of steel and oil with devastating precision.
My hands still, the whetstone forgotten as I inhale deeply.
Venom.
That's what I call her—my little Venom. The poison that's seeped into my bloodstream, that I can't purge no matter how hard I try. Not that I'm trying anymore.
I set down the blade I've been working on, my body already responding to that phantom aroma. I hadn't expected her tonight. Hadn't prepared myself for the inevitable torment of her presence.
Fuck.
Moving to the window, I peer through the grime-coated glass toward the campus beyond. She's out there somewhere, my Omega with the killer's eyes and the victim's scent. The contradiction that's become my personal addiction.
Her fragrance haunts my entire apartment, clinging to the sheets I can't bring myself to wash, lingering in corners where we've fucked like the world was ending. It's become impossible to think clearly when surrounded by it, when every breath reminds me of her skin beneath my hands, her taste on my tongue.
I hate it. I hate how it reduces me to the most basic Alpha instinct—the driving need to claim, to possess, to fill. I hate how it makes my cock throb painfully at the mere suggestion of her presence, how it narrows my world to a single driving impulse.
Find her. Take her. Keep her.
And yet, I wouldn't dare get rid of it. Get rid of her .
Never.
Our arrangement is unusual, to say the least. No strings attached—that was the agreement we made in this place where life is cheap and death is always one wrong step away. Dead Knot doesn't foster relationships; it creates convenient alliances at best, temporary distractions at worst.
I know the implications of what we've become. I've always known, from that first night when I pinned her against the wall with every intention of slitting her throat. My blade was at her jugular, her pulse fluttering beneath the steel like a trapped bird.
Then our eyes met, and something... locked .
Maybe it was her scent hitting me full force, bypassing all reason and restraint. Or maybe it was those eyes—dark pools of barely contained fury that mirrored my own. For a moment, I thought I was looking at my own reflection, at my own self-hatred made manifest in feminine form.
Whatever it was, something clicked between us. Some recognition beyond words or rational thought. Where every instinct had been screaming at me to complete the kill, to fulfill the contract, I found myself dropping my knife instead.
And then I was ravishing her lips like a man possessed, like it was my last chance to taste something divine before the world ended.
That was a year ago. A year of this "situationship," if you could call it that. Some would call it a glorified booty call, an arrangement of mutual convenience in a place where genuine connection is a liability.
Whatever it's deemed, I'm fine with the terms. I don't have to remove my mask. Don't have to reveal the identity or the disgust hidden beneath this barrier. She doesn't ask, doesn't pry, doesn't judge. She's not seeking my acceptance or approval.
All she craves is that intimate connection, even if it's fast, short-lived, and dissolved with the snap of fingers. We give each other exactly what we need, and in these rare cases, we decide if the other is worthy of being saved.
She's saved my ass once.
A shortcoming I didn't notice until I heard the pull of the trigger. Having messy relations with a sniper proved to be my salvation that day—her bullet intercepting what would have killed me in the heat of the moment. The one who fired that potential shot? Six feet under before they even realized what had happened.
I pull myself from the memory, focusing on the present. Her scent is stronger now, which means she's close. Which means she's in trouble, because she'd never come to this part of campus openly unless she had no choice.
Grabbing my mask—crimson leather molded perfectly to the contours of my face—I secure it in place before retrieving my weapons. The ritual is automatic after so many years, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.
By the time I step outside, the hunt is already in progress. I can hear gunshots in the distance, the sound of pursuit. My little Venom has kicked the hornet's nest again.
Stupid, reckless girl.
I move through shadows with practiced ease, following the distinctive trail of her scent mixed with adrenaline and gunpowder. The campus is a maze of broken buildings and hidden passages, but I know it better than most—especially the forgotten paths that lead to places the administration pretends don't exist.
When I finally spot her, she's running full-tilt toward the arts building, a pack of Alphas on her heels. She's already taken down several—I can see their prone forms littering the path behind her—but more remain in pursuit.
Pride mingles with irritation as I watch her dispatch another attacker with brutal efficiency. She fights like someone who's never known safety, like someone who learned combat as a matter of survival rather than sport.
Beautiful. Deadly. Mine.
I follow at a distance, careful to remain unseen until the moment is right. When she slips into the alleyway beside the arts building, I know she's made a tactical error. That particular passage is a dead end—or it was, until someone moved the dumpster that concealed the entrance to the tunnels.
A trap. And she's walked right into it.
I scale the wall at the back of the alley, using handholds only a few know exist. By the time I drop silently onto the other side, she's realized her mistake. Three Alphas block her exit, weapons raised, triumph in their posture.
They don't see me. None of them do, including my Venom. Their focus is on each other, on the imminent violence about to unfold.
I move before conscious thought fully forms, fueled by an instinct that bypasses reason. In three silent strides, I'm behind her. One arm wraps around her waist like a steel band while my other hand presses against her mouth, stifling any sound of surprise.
I pull her back against me, feeling her initial resistance—the instinctive fight response of prey caught by predator. But then my scent reaches her, and the change is immediate. Her body recognizes me before her mind fully processes my presence, going still against my chest.
The Alphas at the alley entrance hesitate, confusion replacing the cockiness in their expressions. They've raised their weapons, ready to fire, but something in my posture, in my pheromones, gives them pause.
I take a deep breath, drawing her scent deeper into my lungs. The action is loud in the sudden silence, all eyes locked on me—all except hers, not yet able to see me from her position.
Leaning forward, I rest my chin on her shoulder, allowing the Alphas a clear view of my face—or rather, the mask that conceals it. I know what they see: the distinctive crimson leather, the subtle insignia embossed at the temple, the eyes that have witnessed more death than most soldiers.
"Mine," I growl, the single word carrying all the deadly intent I can muster.
One word. That's all it takes to have these men straightening, lowering their weapons with trembling hands. My capture. My prey. My secret demise. All fucking mine.
"Viper," one of them gasps, recognition and fear mingling in his voice. It's not my name, but I don't correct him. Let them call me whatever they want, as long as they understand who holds power here.
"We didn't know," another stammers, eyes wide. "We meant no disrespect, no intrusion on your territory. We'll leave you to deal with the Omega."
I don't respond, don't acknowledge their pathetic attempts at appeasement. My silence is answer enough—a dismissal and a warning wrapped in a single, ominous void.
They bow—actually bow—before backing away, maintaining eye contact as if breaking it might provoke me to attack. Smart. In their position, I wouldn't turn my back on me either.
When they've disappeared around the corner, I finally feel some of the tension leave her body. She relaxes against me, trusting in a way that makes something primal and possessive surge through my veins. A growl of satisfaction rumbles in my chest—satisfaction mixed with annoyance, because feeling her yield to my protection only intensifies my desire to claim her completely.
I ease my arm from her mouth, allowing her the freedom to speak. Instead, she simply turns her head, looking up to confirm my identity. When our eyes lock, I have to fight every instinct not to devour her lips right then and there. That's how fucked I am when it comes to her—one look and I'm ready to risk everything.
She's the ultimate death trap, and I walked into it willingly.
I swallow hard, the sound audible in the silent alley. She notices—of course she does. She notices everything about me, cataloging each reaction with those observant eyes.
When she moves, I expect her to step away, to create distance between us. Perhaps to head toward the hidden door she knows leads to my apartment, a route we've taken countless times after our paths cross in the night.
Instead, she turns to face me fully.
And then drops to her knees.
My heart stutters, a physical lurch that leaves me momentarily breathless. I know exactly what she intends, and my body responds with immediate, almost painful enthusiasm. The bulge straining against my pants couldn't possibly get any more prominent, a fact that doesn't escape her notice.
Our eyes meet again, and this time I make no attempt to hide my desire. I let her see exactly what I want, what I need from her. My gaze travels over her form, appreciating how her black ensemble hugs every curve, every deadly line of her body.
Not that it will stay on for long.
She reaches for my zipper but pauses, looking up with an expression that makes my cock twitch with anticipation. "What does my Viper want?" she whispers, her voice a seductive purr that reverberates through my very bones.
Good girl.
A smirk of pride curves my lips as I look down at her, at this lethal creature willingly on her knees before me. I don't need games with her, don't need pretense or false modesty. She's the only woman, the only Omega, I'd ever confess to as if she were the confessional booth in the midst of the altar.
"Venom," I whisper, the word thick with desire. "On my cock. Now."
A seductive smile spreads across her face, her eyes never leaving mine.
"As you wish."