Venomous Vows

Chapter 1

ONE

MAVEN

I love men.

Honestly, I do.

My current circumstances might suggest otherwise, but it’s the truth. Men have their uses, of that I’m certain.

Mostly in the bedroom.

Though, if I’m being honest, I can get myself off just as well.

“Please.” My attention snaps down to the man bleeding out on the ground at my feet. The night air is cool against my skin, and leaves rustle softly in the distance. This was supposed to be quick. Clean. Efficient. Instead, he ran.

Which meant I had to chase him.

Which also meant I had to get closer.

And now my hands are dirty, and I hate getting my hands dirty. I am a lady after all.

“You’re a—” He doesn’t finishes his sentence. My blade takes the words from him before he can. The knife slides cleanly across his throat, and his eyes widen in that familiar moment of realization.

They always look surprised when they finally understand. Not that they’re going to die, but that the person killing them is a woman. I step back carefully, keeping my distance so the spreading pool of blood doesn’t reach my high heels.

They’re my favorite killing shoes—elegant, sharp, and tall enough to make my short frame look a little threatening. And the color? Well, red has always suited me.

Plucking my phone from my purse, I pull up the contact I want, and press call. Carrie answers immediately.

“Is it done?” she asks.

“Done,” I confirm. “Picture coming through.” I snap a quick photo of the body before sending it to her.

A few seconds pass, then Carrie groans. “Gosh, Maven, why is there so much blood? And you’re wearing your good heels.”

“I know.” I sigh, glancing down at them with mild irritation. “The asshole decided to run. Do you know how sore my feet are going to be?”

My gaze shifts to the man again. Honestly, I should kick him for that, but I can’t risk getting blood on my shoes.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Carrie says. “You practically live in heels.”

I flick my long, curly blue hair over my shoulder. “I do, don’t I,” I say with a small smile.

Her tone changes then, turning sharper. “You need to move. The police have been notified of a disturbance. They’re heading your way.”

“That’s because the asshole was screaming,” I mutter.

I crouch and wipe my knife across his shirt, carefully cleaning the blade before sliding it back into my very expensive purse.

“Stop and grab some milk on your way back,” Carrie adds casually. “I’m out.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You need to stop drinking that stuff.”

“And your energy drinks are better?” she shoots back.

“At least they don’t give me diarrhea,” I reply.

Carrie sighs loudly. She loves milk. Unfortunately for her, milk does not love her back.

“Whatever! They’re closing in, so I hope you are gone.”

I’m halfway down the street when I hear the sirens, and I make the snap decision to join the line waiting for entrance into a nightclub just around the corner. Once the police cars fly past me, I step out of the line and continue walking.

“On my way to your place; anything else you need?” I huff out.

“Yeah, chocolate.”

“That goes straight through you as well.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles just before I hang up.

Carrie, my sister, works for me. Or as she likes to say, I work for her. We aren’t really sure which way it is anymore. She gets the money, pays herself, then gives me the rest. It’s been this way for years.

Before I asked her to go into business with me, Carrie worked in cybersecurity. She’s a whiz with computers, while my skills lean more heavily toward … combat.

You see, Carrie and I aren’t biologically related, but she’s my sister all the same.

Even just looking at us, you can tell we aren’t related, as Carrie is of Chinese descent.

We were both orphans who were adopted by the same family.

Carrie was with them for three years before I came along.

And like me, she never knew who her birth family was.

Our adoptive family wasn’t awful, but they only took us in for the money.

As soon as Carrie turned eighteen, she was told to leave.

I kept in touch with her, as she’d felt like my only lifeline, and there was no way I was letting her go.

And two years later when I turned eighteen, I was told to leave too.

While Carrie went straight into working with computers, I joined the military, served for four years, then got out. I hated every minute of it, but it taught me discipline and gave me an opportunity to meet people I probably would have never met otherwise.

My first boyfriend was actually part of the reason I left the military. He offered me a lot of money to do stupid shit, and I accepted.

And then I got hooked on money.

At least it wasn’t drugs. Well, that’s what I like to tell myself.

Nexon, my ex, who I stayed with for three years after leaving the military, continued my training in combat and stealth.

And, damn, he excelled in hand-to-hand combat.

I was good with pretty much any weapon, but I crushed it with a knife.

Which Nexon loved. He relished pinning me to the ground, my weapon pressed against his throat as he fucked me.

Now, that was some good sex.

Not mind-blowing, but solid all the same.

It felt like the sex would never end. He could never come, which I later worked out was because of the drugs in his system.

But thanks to Nexon, I found a different calling. One that paid well, and that I was good at. I learned about contract killing, and how handsomely someone would pay to take another’s life.

He worked for the mafia, with tactics that were more … bloody. I didn’t want to go down that road. I wanted to be more ladylike, cleaner. Sophisticated, if you will. And I also never wanted to come in contact with whomever was to hire me.

No one suspects a delicate-looking, five-foot-two, high-heeled, blue-haired woman of killing a powerful man.

Oh no, of course not.

Surely, she’s too small, and men are so large.

Detachment came easily to me, a byproduct of an upbringing under adoptive parents whose dealings were as shady as they were instructive.

That’s where Carrie came in. I told her one night about what I’d been doing.

At first, she was shocked. Then she immediately went into business mode.

She was clever like that. She’d created a whole business model for me, making me almost untouchable.

All the contracts go through Carrie. She’s basically what they call my handler.

I do nothing but the killing.

I don’t ask why. I don’t ask who hired me. I’m hired to do a job, and I do it well.

So fucking well.

People always assume assassins are in it for the blood, the violence. But that’s so messy and chaotic, and not at all what I like.

That’s not what I do.

I like it clean.

Precise.

Refined.

A kill should feel like a transaction, not a crime scene. No screaming, no collateral, and no unnecessary mess. Everything in its place, as if it were always meant to happen that way.

It’s the control that fascinates me. The way the world narrows to one target, one strike, one outcome. Everything else disappears behind clarity, focus, and efficiency.

And when it’s done … silence. Nothing left behind but the proof that the job was completed.

I don’t linger.

I don’t celebrate.

I don’t feel guilt.

It’s just business, done with style.

And I am very, very good at it.

I’ve even earned a reputation for myself, exclusivity if you will.

I’m hard to reach, and even harder to hire.

My fee would scare the most steadfast of men, but luckily, those aren’t the people who hire me. No, my clients are just filthy fucking rich assholes who always want someone dead.

The streets have a name for me.

Venom.

Which I find highly amusing.