35. Venetia
Venetia
D awn brings a new day, and I’m already up and showered, dressed in a tight, white catsuit that is ridiculous attire, but I’m fresh out of clean clothes.
Viper enters the room with a tray of food that smells so delish, I gain ten pounds just from the scent alone.
He pauses and eyes my outfit, complete with white stilettos, and raises an eyebrow. “Was that another panic-pack item?”
“You could say that,” I snort, doing a twirl. “Like it?”
“My thoughts don’t matter. I only care if you like it.”
Tears spring to my eyes. The exact opposite of what Nathan would say. He would go on a tirade about how inappropriate it is, that he can see my arse crack and cunt and tits through it. “It’s absurd,” I say. “But we’ve done zero laundry since we got here.”
He chuckles and places the tray on the desk. It’s filled with bacon, sausages, eggs, fried bread, beans, mushrooms, and more. I guess the kitchen is functioning again.
He moves closer to me, and I gravitate towards him. “Well, you’ve got me there. I was contemplating earlier whether I should wear my pants inside out.”
I snort. “We are pretty rank.”
“I’ll find the laundry room and get it sorted.”
“You know how to wash clothes?” I ask.
“I’ve been washing my own clothes since I was about ten. I can handle it.”
The image of a ten-year-old Nigel, tough and self-sufficient, doing his own washing because there was no one else to do it, flashes through my mind. It’s a detail that chips away at his hard-man exterior, revealing the boy who had to raise himself.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, but he sees through the bravado. He always does.
His mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Eat. You’ll need the energy.”
I don’t argue. I sit and demolish the breakfast. The rich, greasy food is a welcome shock to my system. He watches me the entire time, his navy eyes missing nothing. It should be unnerving, but it’s not. It feels like protection.
When I’m done, I push the tray away, feeling more human, more ready. “Right. Let’s go see what our little army is made of.”
We walk down to the quad together. The eleven loyalists are already there, standing in a loose formation, looking nervous but determined. They all stare at my ridiculous outfit as I approach, but no one dares say a word.
Viper steps forward, his presence immediately commanding their full attention.
He cracks his knuckles, a slow, deliberate sound that promises pain.
“The queen wants soldiers. I’m going to break you and build you back into something that won’t get her killed.
Let’s start with a little warm-up. Ten laps of the quad. Now.”
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. His voice carries the weight of a death sentence, and they scramble to obey, their expensive running shoes hitting the ancient stones.
I raise an eyebrow as Viper joins them, but it’s a savvy move.
He wants them to know he can run rings around them and still be ready to kick arse.
I sit on a stone bench, watching the circus. Viper doesn’t just run with them; he terrorises them. He overtakes them, then drops back to bark insults in their ears, pushing them past their limits.
This is what my life has become. A mafia princess in a white catsuit, overseeing a boot camp for the criminally privileged, run by a man who learnt to fight on the streets of Manchester. It’s insane. It’s perfect.
Blake and Rafferty emerge from the main building, drawn by the commotion. Blake is holding a large rolled-up sheet of paper, his expression one of focused intensity. Rafferty carries a duffel bag that clinks with the sound of weapons. They stop beside me, their presence a solid wall of support.
“He’s enjoying that a little too much,” Rafferty observes with a smirk.
“He’s making them soldiers,” Blake counters, his eyes scanning the running students with an analytical gaze. “We need every one of them to be a weapon.”
“He’s making them his,” I correct, a possessive thrill running through me.
Viper glances over, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second, and in that look, there’s a promise of shared violence, of shared victory.
He’s mine. They are all mine. I tear my gaze from his and look at Raff. “What have you got for me?”
“Gifts!” he says, raising the bag and then dumping it on the bench next to me with a loud clatter. “Everything from throwing stars to swords to guns.”
I grin, plunging my hand into the bag and pulling out a matched pair of throwing knives. The weight is perfect, the balance exquisite. “You know the way to a girl’s heart, Raff.”
His eyes darken with a possessive heat. “I know the way to every part of you, trouble.”
“While you two are playing with your toys,” Blake cuts in, his voice dry as he unrolls the A3-sized paper across the bench beside me. He has sketched out the walls of the castle, and red crosses dot across the page. “Peter and I have plotted integral parts of the battlements.”
I lean over the drawing, tracing the lines of the castle’s outer wall with my finger. The paper is thick, and the pencil lines are sharp and precise. It’s a map of death.
“The red crosses are sniper nests,” Blake explains, his voice a low murmur beside me. “Peter’s an engineering student. He identified the points with the best lines of sight and cover. The black ones are structural weaknesses.”
“Give me a rifle and a spot on that north tower, and I could pick off their command before they even figure out how to get across the moat,” Rafferty says, his hand coming to rest on the back of my neck, his thumb stroking me.
I look from the deadly map to the men beside me. My strategist, my assassin, and my vicious monster out on the quad, forging my army. A cold, exhilarating power rushes through me. This is what it feels like to be a queen. Not just inheriting a name, but commanding the pieces on the board.
“Good,” I say, turning back to the map and standing up. “We need to arm everyone, then we’ll see how well Viper’s new soldiers can shoot, stab, and the rest of it.”
Rafferty grins, a feral flash of white teeth. “My pleasure.” He upends the duffel bag, spilling a glittering arsenal onto the stone bench. Guns of various calibres, stilettos, combat knives, even a fucking crossbow. It’s a beautiful, terrifying sight.
By the time Viper finishes his warm-up from hell, our guys and girls are gasping, sweating, but they’re alive and on form. He shoves them toward us with a series of barks and growls.
“Pick one,” I order, my voice ringing out across the quad.
I don’t wait for them. I step back, sight a gnarled old oak tree about twenty yards away, and let the first throwing knife fly.
It sinks into the trunk with a satisfying thunk .
The second follows, embedding itself a hair’s breadth from the first.
“Rafferty will instruct you on your chosen weapon,” I say, turning back to them. “Viper will correct your form. Blake will assess your potential.” I watch as they approach the pile of weaponry.
Rafferty moves among them, a low murmur of instruction here, a sharp correction there.
He’s in his element, a master of death teaching his trade.
Viper stalks behind them, a silent predator correcting a grip, adjusting a stance, his presence alone enough to make them sharpen their focus.
Blake stands slightly apart, his gaze sweeping over each student, his tablet in hand, making notes.
He’s not just assessing their skill; he’s cataloguing their worth, slotting them into the tactical puzzle he’s building in his head.
They are already professors at this fucked-up academy, and they don’t even know yet.
A fierce, possessive pride swells in my chest. These are my men.
This is my army. For the first time since I arrived at this godforsaken place, I feel like I’m not just reacting to chaos that was thrown at me but shaping it.
Cravenmoor thinks he’s playing a game of chess, but he’s about to find out his pawns have been replaced by wolves, and his opponent is a fucking queen.
I pick up a third knife, feeling its cold, deadly weight in my palm.
The knife feels like an extension of my will.
Viper circles back to me, his chest heaving slightly, a sheen of sweat making the tattoos on his neck and arms gleam. He smells of exertion and pure, undiluted male aggression. My pussy clenches in response.
“They’re more experienced than I expected,” he grunts, his eyes sweeping over the students with a predator’s assessment.
“Even the high-end families train their kids,” I say with a soft smile.
His hand snakes out, gripping the back of my neck. It’s not gentle. It’s a claim, a brand. “What does that make me?”
He’s daring me to say it, to throw the insult at him that I did when we were sitting pretty in my dad’s office back home. I stare into those blue depths and bring the knife up to his throat. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t even breathe. “Mine,” I purr seductively. “It makes you mine.”