8. Fragile Monsters
8
FRAGILE MONSTERS
~JESSICA~
M orning sunlight filters through broken blinds, painting stripes across my face that force my eyelids to flutter.
The sensation is foreign— warmth, softness, security —things I've forgotten how to recognize after years of sleeping with one eye open.
My phone buzzes from somewhere beneath a tangle of clothes.
Buzz. Buzz. Pause. Buzz.
Persistent. Insistent. Annoying.
I try to ignore it, burying my face deeper into what feels like cloud-spun cotton, but the vibration continues, determined to drag me from the best sleep I've had in... I can't even remember.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"Fucking hell," I mutter, voice raspy with sleep.
As consciousness fully returns, I become aware of the weight across my waist— heavy, possessive, warm. An arm. A massive arm, corded with muscle and lined with scars that tell stories I've never asked to hear.
Viper.
My masked monster, still breathing deep and steady behind me, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow matches my own. His breath tickles the back of my neck, a gentle reminder that I'm not alone. That, for once, I let myself stay the night.
Dangerous. Reckless. Completely out of character.
I should be panicking, not melting further into his embrace.
But I don't move.
Instead, I catalog details I've never noticed before. The faded blue sheets that smell like sandalwood and gun oil. The scattered clothes mapping our path of destruction from door to bed. The way morning light softens the harsh edges of weapons mounted on walls, turning instruments of death into strange art.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrates again, and this time I worry it might wake him.
Slowly, carefully, I begin to extricate myself from his hold. His arm tenses briefly before going slack, as if even in sleep he's reluctant to let me go but forces himself to respect my choice.
The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
I slip free, padding naked across cool floorboards to retrieve my phone from the pocket of my ripped leggings. The screen is lit with notifications—all from Emilia.
5:42 AM: Where the hell are you?
6:23 AM: Hello??? Did you get murdered??
7:15 AM: If you're with your masked fucker boy, just say so
7:16 AM: Otherwise I'm calling the CIA and secret services
8:04 AM: That's it. I'm hacking the surveillance drones
I snort softly, scrolling through her increasingly dramatic messages.
It's so typical Emi—somewhere between genuinely concerned and comically overprotective. She'd actually do it, too. Hack government systems just to make sure I'm not bleeding out in some alley.
My thumbs hover over the screen, hesitating before typing:
I'm fine. With [backspace backspace backspace] Safe. Will be back later.
I consider adding more, but what else is there to say?
"Sorry I disappeared, I was too busy getting fucked senseless by my masked Alpha hookup to remember that normal people check in"?
Yeah fucking right. Let’s not do that.
Setting the phone down, I glance at Viper's sleeping form. He looks... different this way. Vulnerable, almost. The mask remains in place—it always does, even in sleep—but without the intensity of his gaze, without the coiled tension that usually radiates from him, he seems almost... human.
What am I doing here?
The question slips unbidden into my thoughts, bringing with it a cascade of memories that make my chest ache.
Elizabeth Abercrombie.
My best friend. My sister in all but blood. The girl who would have been horrified to see what I've become.
We were inseparable once. Two misfits who found each other in a world determined to break us. She was the careful one, always thinking three steps ahead, while I rushed headlong into trouble, dragging her with me through schemes and adventures that usually ended with both of us grounded.
"You're going to get us killed one day, Jess," she'd always say, rolling her eyes even as she followed me into whatever chaos I'd concocted.
But she isn't here to roll her eyes anymore. She isn't here to pull me back from the edge when I go too far.
She thinks I'm dead, just like everyone else.
And what I've become in her absence— this unstable, vengeance-driven shell who fucks a masked Alpha and lets him use knife handles as sex toys —would break her heart.
Maybe…
Let’s be real.
In our cynical world of control when it comes to Omegas, anyone can change.
The happy go lucky Jessica who enjoyed neon colors and was full of life turned into…this.
I shake my head, willing away the memories. Dwelling on the past won't change anything. It won't bring back the girl I was. It won't heal the wounds that have festered for more than six years.
"Another therapy session," I mutter to myself, running a hand through tangled hair. "That's what you need."
My limbs feel heavy as I move to the edge of the bed, perching there for a moment as I gather strength. It's always like this after—the exhaustion, the weakness, the dizzy spells that leave me disoriented and vulnerable.
Just another lovely side effect of the trauma.
Another broken piece of Jessica Vesper Calavera that refuses to heal properly.
I stand slowly, testing my balance.
One step. Two. Three.
The world tilts.
It happens so fast I barely register the warning signs—the rush of blood from my head, the darkening of my vision at the edges, the sudden weightlessness in my legs. I try to correct, to find something to hold onto, but my limbs refuse to cooperate.
The last thing I feel is my eyes rolling back, consciousness slipping away like water through cupped hands.
Then nothing.
* * *
"Venom. Come back to me."
The voice cuts through darkness, insistent and concerned. Hands grip my shoulders, shaking me—firm but gentle. I struggle toward the sound, swimming through layers of confusion.
"Come on, little mouse. Open those eyes for me."
When I finally manage to pry my eyelids open, Viper's face— or what's visible of it beneath the mask —hovers above me, brows drawn together in a frown.
"Wha...?" I try to sit up, disoriented.
His palm presses against my sternum, keeping me horizontal.
"Easy. You passed out."
Memory returns in fragments—standing, walking, falling. I grimace, embarrassment washing over me.
"Shit."
"Yeah, shit is right." His voice hardens with annoyance, but there's something else beneath it. Concern. Worry. "You always do this stupidity."
I blink up at him, my mind still foggy.
"Do what?"
"Push yourself too far," he growls. "Get up too fast. Ignore basic fucking self-care."
There's no heat in his words, just a weary frustration that suggests this isn't the first time we've had this conversation.
I try to look indignant, but the effect is probably ruined by my position—flat on my back, naked, with him looming over me like a particularly handsome, particularly exasperated guardian angel with a crimson mask.
"It's your fault," I mutter, finding my voice. "If you didn't give me such good sex, I could think straight."
His snort is half-amusement, half-exasperation.
"I'll show you good sex, Venom. When you're not fucking passing out on my floor."
Before I can retort, he's reaching for something on the bedside table—a small bottle, from which he shakes out two pills. They're white with tiny blue speckles, familiar in a way that makes my stomach clench.
"No," I start, but he's already moving, his lips finding mine in one swift motion.
The kiss is deep, urgent. His tongue pushes the pills into my mouth, and his hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing gently to keep me from spitting them out. I could fight— could bite, could scratch, could make this a war —but something in his eyes stops me.
Trust me , they say. Please.
I swallow.
The effect is almost immediate—a wave of calm washing through me, smoothing the jagged edges of anxiety, dulling the perpetual ache that lives in my bones.
My muscles, tense from the fall and the shock, begin to relax.
Viper brushes hair from my forehead, his touch uncharacteristically tender.
"It'll get better once your body adapts," he murmurs. "For now, just focus on breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I follow his instructions, too weak to argue. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath comes easier than the last, oxygen flowing to my starved brain, pushing back the shadows that had threatened to consume me.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice a low rumble. "Good girl."
The praise washes over me, warm and unexpectedly comforting.
I shouldn't like it. Shouldn't crave the way it makes something unfurl in my chest, something fragile and dangerous.
But I do.
"What was that?" I whisper, feeling my eyelids grow heavy again. But this is different from the fainting spell—this is a gentle slide toward sleep, controlled and peaceful.
"Something to help," he says vaguely. "Rest now. I've got you."
His words follow me into darkness, wrapping around me like a promise I'm afraid to believe.
* * *
When consciousness returns again, I'm surrounded by warmth and the scent of lavender. My body feels weightless, suspended in a cocoon of comfort that makes me reluctant to open my eyes.
Water laps gently at my skin. Not cold, not hot—perfectly temperate, soothing muscles I hadn't realized were sore.
I'm in a bath.
And I'm not alone.
Strong arms cradle me, holding me secure against a broad chest. One hand cups water, pouring it carefully over my shoulders, while the other supports my neck, ensuring my head stays above the surface.
I blink, disoriented, and find Viper watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Welcome back," he says softly.
The bathroom is lit by candlelight, golden flames dancing across tiled walls. Steam rises in lazy spirals, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that seems at odds with the deadly weapons I know hang just beyond the door.
"How long was I out?" My voice is raspy, barely above a whisper.
"About an hour." He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold. "You needed it."
I should be embarrassed—being handled like this, cared for like I'm something fragile. I should be fighting to regain control, to establish boundaries, to remind him that this isn't what we do.
We fuck. We fight. We save each other's lives when necessary.
We don't do...whatever this is.
But I can't summon the energy to protest. Not when the water feels so good against my skin.
Not when his hands are so careful, so gentle.
"This is new," I manage instead, gesturing vaguely at our surroundings.
Something that might be a smile tugs at his lips.
"What, you think I only know how to fuck you senseless against walls?"
"Evidence would suggest..."
He snorts, resuming his careful ministrations, pouring water over my shoulders, down my back.
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Venom."
The statement hangs between us, heavy with implications. It's true, of course . I know almost nothing about the man behind the mask—not his real name, not where he came from, not why he's in Dead Knot when he clearly has resources beyond what this place could offer.
But the reverse is also true.
He knows me only as Venom— the deadly, damaged Omega who matches his darkness step for step. He doesn't know Jessica, doesn't know the girl I was or the ghosts that drive me.
We're strangers in the most intimate sense, sharing bodies but not histories.
And yet... there's this.
His arms cradling me in a bath, making sure I don't drown in my weakness. Pills he apparently keeps for when I push too far. A tenderness that feels dangerously close to something I gave up the right to have six years ago.
"Thank you," I whisper, the words foreign on my tongue.
His chest expands with a deep breath, then contracts slowly.
"Don't make it weird, little mouse."
A laugh bubbles up, unexpected and genuine.
"God forbid."
Silence settles, comfortable in a way it shouldn't be. The water laps around us, candlelight flickering, creating shadows that dance across the ceiling. It feels surreal, like a dream my battered psyche has conjured to escape reality.
"The dizzy spells," he says finally, his voice careful, measured. "They're getting worse."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway.
"Yeah."
"And the other symptoms? The ones you think I don't notice?"
I tense involuntarily. Of course he's noticed. He sees everything—the tremors in my hands some mornings, the migraines that leave me nauseated and disoriented, the moments when my mind drifts, lost in memories or nightmares I can't escape.
"They come and go," I admit, because lying seems pointless now. "Some days are better than others."
His hold tightens fractionally. "And yesterday? Before you found yourself cornered by those Alphas?"
I close my eyes, not wanting to see whatever expression might be visible beneath his mask.
"Yesterday was... not great."
"You shouldn't have been out there alone. Not when you're?—"
"What?" I interrupt, an edge creeping into my voice. "Weak? Broken? A liability?"
"Vulnerable," he corrects quietly.
The word lands like a slap, stinging in its gentleness. I want him to be cruel, to be dismissive. That I could handle. That would fit the narrative I've constructed—that we use each other for pleasure and convenience, nothing more.
This... concern. This care. It doesn't fit. It makes something in my chest ache with a longing I thought I'd killed years ago.
"I'm not—" I begin, but he cuts me off.
"You are," he says firmly. "And denying it doesn't make it any less true. We're all vulnerable, Venom. Even monsters like us."
The candlelight catches the blue of his eyes, turning them almost silver.
I've never seen them this close, this clear. They're beautiful in their brokenness—like shattered glass still catching light.
I reach up, my fingers hovering near the edge of his mask. He doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Just watches, his breath steady, as my fingertips trace the boundary where leather meets skin.
"Why do you care?" I whisper, the question that's been burning in my throat since I woke in his arms.
For a long moment, he's silent, his expression unreadable behind the mask. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like the words are being dragged from somewhere deep and painful.
"Because you're the only thing in this fucking hellhole that makes me feel alive and human."
The confession hangs in the steam-filled air, raw and honest in a way neither of us has dared to be before.
I don't know how to respond.
Don't know how to process what it means, what it could mean. So I do the only thing that makes sense in this moment of impossible vulnerability.
I kiss him.
Not hungrily, not desperately. Not like I'm trying to devour him or be devoured.
Softly. Gently. Like I'm trying to say thank you, and I'm sorry, and I understand all at once.
When I pull back, his eyes are closed, his breath slightly uneven. Something has shifted between us—subtle but significant, like the first crack in a dam that's been holding back too much for too long.
"We should get you dressed," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Your friend is probably ready to call in aerial strikes by now."
The reminder of the world beyond this room— of Emilia, of Dead Knot, of the mission that consumes my every waking moment —brings reality crashing back.
This interlude, whatever it is, can't last.
We both know that.
I nod, letting him help me from the bath, watching as he wraps me in a towel that smells like him. Neither of us speaks as he hands me fresh clothes—not mine, but his, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're favorites.
As I dress, as I prepare to return to the person I have to be outside these walls, I catch him watching me. His expression is hidden, as always, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.
"Viper," I start, not sure what I'm going to say, only knowing I need to say something.
He shakes his head once, stopping me.
"Don't."
I understand.
Whatever fragile thing we've uncovered here is too new, too dangerous to name. To acknowledge it would be to make it real, and neither of us is ready for what that might mean.
So I nod, swallowing the words that had threatened to escape.
Instead, I pick up my phone, tuck it into the pocket of borrowed sweatpants, and move toward the door.
His voice stops me just as my hand touches the knob.
"Venom."
I turn, waiting.
"Next time," he says, his eyes intense even in the dim light, "call me before you go hunting. My number is in your phone.” I’m surprised by the request, but then again, maybe that’s why he knew about Emi's texting rampage. “Don't make me find you cornered again."
It's not quite a demand, not quite a request. Something in between—a lifeline offered without asking me to admit I need it.
I smile, small but genuine.
"Only if you promise to bring the knife again."
His answering laugh, dark and rich, follows me out the door and into the harsh reality that awaits beyond.
For the first time in six years, I leave a piece of myself behind—a fragment of Jessica that I thought had died in that alley but apparently still lives, buried beneath layers of Venom and vengeance.
The frightening part isn't that I left it.
It's that I'm not sure I want it back.