4. Venetia
Venetia
S taring down into the abyss churns my stomach.
“Well,” Blake says, his voice crisp and devoid of emotion as he switches on his phone’s torch. The beam cuts a narrow path into the oppressive black, illuminating damp stone steps that look treacherous and slick with grime. “Shall we?”
“If we must,” I mutter, having second thoughts about this.
Viper just grunts, a low, guttural sound of pure displeasure.
But he follows Blake down the steps, his movements stiff and wary.
I follow close behind him, Rafferty bringing up the rear, our footsteps echoing unnervingly in the enclosed space.
The air grows colder, thicker with the scent of decay.
We descend into the belly of the beast, leaving the fire and the rain behind for a much older, deeper kind of darkness.
The steps bottom out onto a dirt floor that sucks at the soles of my shoes. The torchlight reveals a long, narrow corridor flanked by cells, their iron-barred doors sealed shut, and my stomach rolls.
“Are there…?”
“Don’t look,” Viper says, moving to block my view.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Don’t look.”
“Blake, which way?” I whisper, my voice sounding small in the oppressive silence.
He consults his phone, the blue light of the screen making him look like some spectral guide. “The only way is straight,” he mutters back.
As we move forward, a faint scratching sound echoes from one of the cells to our left. Viper freezes instantly.
“Your turn not to look,” I say to Viper, tugging his arm. “Just keep walking.”
He resists for a split second, his entire body tense as a coiled spring, before he lets me pull him forward.
The scratching intensifies, a dry, frantic sound that scrapes at my nerves.
I refuse to look, focusing on Blake’s back, a beacon of expensive shirt and unruffled calm in this subterranean hell.
“Almost there,” Blake murmurs, his torch beam sweeping over an archway that leads into a larger, circular chamber.
Rafferty’s hand brushes my back, a silent check-in. I give a slight nod without turning. We are a unit, a pack, and right now, our alpha is compromised by a deep-seated fear I find both endearing and terrifying.
As we step into the chamber, a shadow detaches from the wall and darts across the floor, right through the beam of Blake’s light. It’s huge, its fur slick with grime, a long, naked tail whipping behind it.
Viper stops dead, a low sound escaping his throat. It’s not a growl of aggression; it’s a sound of pure, primal revulsion.
“It’s just one,” I whisper, squeezing his hand hard.
“One that is about to die,” he mutters and raises his handgun to fire into the dark.
Somehow, by some aim-god shining down on him, he finds his mark, and the shot a is deafening echo. The squawk of death is unpleasant in our ears.
“Jesus,” Raff says into the silence. “How the fuck did you even see it?”
“Honed instincts,” he growls. “Dark alleys are… dark.”
Well, he’s not wrong, but damn. I make a mental note not to seriously piss him off. Mind you, it might be too late for that.
His words hang in the air, a reminder of the world that forged him.
He’s not just a man who grew up in the mafia; he’s a man who clawed his way up from the gutter, fighting for every scrap.
It’s a raw, brutal honesty that makes my heart ache for the boy he must have been. Suddenly, a thought strikes me.
“What’s your name?” I ask with a frown.
“Viper,” he growls.
“No, your real name. You’re not telling me your parents named their baby boy ‘Viper’.”
He turns to face me full on. I can’t make out his expression, but I can gather it is one of fury from the glare I know he’s giving me, even if I can’t see it.
“Maybe they did,” he snaps and turns to march off into the darkness, thoroughly pissed off and desperate to get out of here. Makes two of us.
Blake’s torch beam follows him, casting a long, distorted shadow that writhes on the damp stone walls.
“Well,” Rafferty mutters from behind me, his voice laced with amusement. “That went well.”
“Leave it,” Blake says, his tone clipped. He moves past me, his torch beam steady. “The valve room should be around here somewhere.”
Viper doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, a black-clad mountain of rage disappearing into the gloom.
I feel a pang of something sharp and uncomfortable in my chest. I pushed a button I didn’t know existed, a wound I can’t see, and I don’t like the feeling.
His name, whatever it is, is clearly a piece of himself he keeps locked away in a place just like this.
He pauses, and we catch up to him. He shoves open a heavy, rotting wooden door at the end of the chamber.
Blake’s torch illuminates a massive, circular room dominated by a series of huge, wooden wheels set into the stone wall.
The air here is thick with the smell of stagnant water and the stench of death.
“This is it,” Blake announces, his voice echoing slightly.
We’ve found our objective, but the tension between Viper and me is a separate, more dangerous kind of pressure building in the dark.
Viper stalks towards the largest wheel without a word, his anger a force field around him. He grips the slick, moss-covered wood, his knuckles white. It’s a physical outlet for a rage that has nowhere else to go, and I’m the one who lit the fuse.
“Right then,” Rafferty says, breaking the heavy silence. “Let’s get this medieval plumbing sorted.” He moves to help Viper, but Viper just shoves the wheel with a furious grunt. It doesn’t budge.
My guilt is a bitter taste in my mouth. I crossed a line. His name is his, a secret kept in the dark alleys he came from. I had no right to try and drag it into the light, especially down here, especially in front of the other two guys.
Blake, the pragmatist, stares at the three wheels. “There are three wheels. Logic dictates they need to be turned simultaneously.”
He and Rafferty take one of the smaller wheels each. Viper stays at the main one, his shoulders rigid with unspoken fury. I remain on overwatch, looking for rats and ghosts of the past.
I gulp when I hear a scurrying sound coming from near Viper’s feet. In the light of Blake’s torch, I can see a rat the size of a cat.
Viper freezes, but I don’t hesitate. I raise the gun and fire.
“Eww, eww, eww,” I mutter as blood and guts spray out everywhere.
“Yet she kills humans without a second thought,” Raff snorts. “You’re a contradiction, trouble, and I like it.”
I ignore Rafferty’s comment, my focus entirely on Viper.
His shoulders are still rigid, his jaw set like stone.
The shot echoed, but the silence that followed is heavier.
I killed the rat for him, a small, violent peace offering, but I know it’s not enough to undo the damage.
My question wasn’t just a question; it was an intrusion into a place he keeps locked down tighter than this dungeon.
“On three,” Blake’s voice cuts through the tension, a command that refocuses us all.
Viper doesn’t look at me. He just grips the wheel, his muscles bunching under his wet tee. Rafferty and Blake position themselves at the other two.
“One...” Blake’s voice echoes. “Two...”
I hold my breath, the air thick with the smell of mildew and rat guts.
“Three!”
They heave in unison. The sound of grinding stone and protesting iron fills the chamber, an agonising groan of ancient machinery waking from a long slumber.
The wheels turn, slow and grudging at first, then gaining a fraction of momentum.
Viper puts every ounce of his fury into the movement, his face a mask of brutal effort.
A low rumble starts, deep in the stone beneath our feet, a vibration that travels up my legs. It’s the sound of water, a lot of water, being unleashed. The moat is filling. Our fortress is about to be secured, medieval style.
The wheels lock into place with a final, shuddering thud.
The men step back, chests heaving. Rafferty wipes a grimy hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt.
Blake, somehow, still looks composed. Does he get his suits Scotchgarded?
That reminds me that I’m still wearing his jacket, and I snuggle further into it, trying to warm the iciness that has dropped into the pit of my stomach.
Viper turns and strides over to me. He grips the back of my neck and pulls me into a deep kiss that startles me, but seconds later, I devour his mouth with mine, clawing at his damp, sweaty tee to get closer to him.
“Thanks,” he says, pulling back with that delicious half-smile that makes me wetter than the moat outside.
“Anytime,” I pant and feel the chill when he steps back.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Agreed.”
Minutes later, we climb out of that hole, leaving the rats and ghosts behind.
The air in the chapel feels clean and fresh by comparison, though it’s still thick with the smell of rain and smoke.
Viper’s hand is a ghost on my neck, the memory of his kiss branded on my lips.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was raw, possessive, a claim staked in the darkness, and I answered it with everything I had.
As we step back out into the rain-soaked, pre-dawn darkness, the scene is one of organised chaos. The fire is mostly out, thanks to the rain and the students who helped out, who now stand exhausted, their designer clothes soot-stained and soaking wet.
“That you lot?” Leonard Dibley calls out, jutting his thumb over his shoulder towards the academy walls.
“You mean the moat?” Rafferty calls back. “Yeah.”
“Do you think it’ll keep them out?”
“For now,” I say. “Shame we can’t fill it with crocodiles or anacondas…” I shoot a questioning stare at Viper.
He snorts. “I mean, it’s not impossible, but the chances of them not staying in the moat are quite high, and then we’d have chaos on our hands on the outside.”
“Piranhas, then?” I ask hopefully.
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make some calls.”
“Seriously?” Blake asks, looking, for once, rather shocked by this. “You can make a call and have a moat filled with piranhas?”
“We all have our skills,” Viper says and stalks off. “I need a fucking shower and enough food to put me into a food coma.”
“I think that makes four of us,” I say, following him.
We walk back through the devastation, an army of four.
The air is thick with the smell of wet ash and ozone.
Students who helped fight the fire are making their way back to their rooms, their faces smeared with soot, their movements slow and weary.
We are their leaders now, their protectors, forged in a single night of fire and blood.
Back in my room, the scene is one of controlled chaos.
The shattered window is a gaping wound, letting in the damp, cold air.
Glass crunches under my boots. Blake’s jacket is still around my shoulders, a comforting weight that smells of him—expensive cologne and cold, hard cash.
Lucy is as agitated as a black mamba can be, hissing and striking the glass as we enter.
The rest of the room is a disaster zone. Bullet holes pepper the walls like a rash. My bed is a mess of splintered wood and shredded mattress stuffing.
“Well,” Rafferty says, surveying the damage. “This is fucked.”
“We’ll move to my room,” Blake says, moving to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he comes back out, he looks around. “Bags?”
“Wardrobe,” I say, and blink when he pulls them out and starts packing up my stuff. Every item is treated with care as he meticulously folds and stacks everything in the case.
Viper ignores the destruction. He heads straight for the bathroom, turning on the shower. The sound of running water is the most normal thing I’ve heard all night. He reappears in the doorway, his eyes locking onto mine, a dark promise in their depths. “You. Me. Shower. Now.”
“Who died and made you my daddy?” I shoot back, but I move towards him, a traitorous puppet pulled by the strings of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated lust.
Viper doesn’t respond to my taunt. He just watches me approach, his navy eyes dark and intense, stripping me bare long before my clothes are off.
He steps back into the steamy bathroom, a silent summons.
I follow, shedding Blake’s jacket and letting it drop to the floor.
He turns and starts peeling his wet tee over his head, revealing a canvas of tattoos across his back and shoulders, muscles flexing with the movement.
I reach for the hem of my top, my fingers trembling slightly.
This isn’t just about getting clean. This is a ritual.
A washing away of the blood and fear, a reclaiming of our bodies and each other in the aftermath of the fight.