15. Viper
Viper
T his is not the smell of a street fight or a back-alley hit. It’s the smell of a statement.
My first instinct is to haul Venetia out of here, to shield her from the carnage, but I know better. She’s already drinking it in, her face a pale, beautiful mask of incandescent fury. Her knuckles are white where she’s clutching that fucking necklace until her palm bleeds.
This was a silent slaughter. Poisoned most likely due to the frothing at the mouth of some of the bodies I can see.
Venetia breathes in deeply. “Still got those shovels?”
I raise mine, as does Raff. We know where this is going, and we are prepared to start digging.
She takes mine from me with a steady hand, the necklace still attached to her other hand. With a vicious snarl, she storms off, back the way we came. I follow her and grasp her arm lightly. “You aren’t going out there alone.”
“What difference does it make? They aren’t going to kill me.
They want me. This was their way of starting the negotiations off in a way that will be imprinted on my memory forever.
If they want a queen, they will see me digging graves for those poor fuckers that they killed, who got caught up in this shitstorm.
” She yanks her arm from mine. “Now either help or get out of my way.”
I watch her storm away, the shovel held like a sceptre. My first instinct is to grab her, to shake some sense into her, but the look on her face stops me cold. It’s not grief. It’s fucking war.
“Like fuck I’m getting out of your way,” I growl, grabbing the other shovel from Rafferty as he stalks past. “You two start wrapping the bodies and move them to wherever the fuck she’s going.”
“Uhm,” Blake mutters, but I silence him with a glare.
“Now.”
They nod and fall in line. I’m not leaving Venetia, so they need to buckle the fuck up and handle the dead bodies’ transportation.
Venetia’s back is ramrod straight, the stolen crown still sitting crookedly on her head, forgotten. She’s right. This is a statement, and her response has to be just as powerful.
I follow her, the weight of the shovel a grim comfort in my hand.
We don’t speak. There are no words for this.
There’s only the grim task ahead, the need to give these kids some fucking dignity in death.
We walk back towards the groundskeeper’s shed, our footsteps echoing in the unnatural silence.
The Graduates wanted her attention. Well, they fucking have it now.
Venetia heads for the old, unused patch of ground near the old chapel.
It’s fitting. When she finds a spot, she doesn’t hesitate.
She throws the necklace carelessly to the ground and sinks the shovel into the soft, wet earth with a grunt of effort.
The sound is a brutal punctuation mark in the heavy silence.
I stand beside her, sinking my shovel into the ground.
We work in a grim, unspoken rhythm. This isn’t about burying the dead.
It’s about honouring them. It’s Venetia showing our enemy, whoever and wherever they are, that they can kill her people, but they can’t kill their memory.
They can’t break her. And for that, I’ll dig until my hands bleed.
The shovel sinks into the earth again and again.
Mud splatters my jeans and my boots, but I don’t give a fuck.
Each scoop of dirt is a promise. A promise of vengeance.
The rhythm is hypnotic: drive, lift, toss.
Drive, lift, toss. Venetia works beside me, her movements fuelled by a cold, controlled fury.
She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even look tired.
She just digs, her face set like stone, the crown still perched on her head like a halo of death.
I glance at her, the shovel pausing in my hands.
The sight of her, covered in mud and sweat, her knuckles raw and bleeding around the handle of the shovel, does something to me.
It’s not lust, not right now. It’s something deeper.
Fucking reverence. This is what a queen looks like.
Not draped in silk and jewels, but forged in the dirt, digging graves for her fallen.
Blake and Rafferty appear at the edge of the clearing, their faces grim. They carry the first body between them, wrapped in a linen tablecloth from the dining hall.
Venetia doesn’t stop digging. She just sinks her shovel deeper, carving out a space for the first of her subjects to be laid to rest. Her kingdom is being built on a foundation of bodies, and I’ll be the one to hand her every fucking brick.
“Who is it?” I ask quietly.
“Leonard,” Blake mouths back. “We’re making notes.”
I resist the inappropriate urge to roll my eyes. He is as meticulous with death as he is in everything else. But I guess in this case, we need it, so we know who is where. Their families will need to know.
I grunt and drive the shovel back into the earth. Blake can make his fucking notes. I’ll make a list of my own. Names. Faces. People who are going to pay for this. They wanted to make a statement, and I’m going to send one back, carved into their fucking flesh.
Venetia finally looks up, her eyes landing on the white-shrouded form of the boy who, only hours ago, was giving us intel. Her jaw works, a muscle flexing in silent statement to the fury she’s holding back. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away.
“Deeper,” she says. “They deserve a proper burial.”
We dig. The pile of earth grows, a monument to our rage. Blake and Rafferty place Leonard’s body gently beside the growing mound and turn to go back for the next one without a word. The silence is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic thud of metal on wet earth and our ragged breaths.
My muscles start to burn, a familiar ache that I welcome. Pain is grounding. It’s real. It’s better than the fucking helplessness churning in my gut. I want to hunt. I want to kill. But this comes first. This is grim, necessary work.
Venetia’s hands are shaking. I stop and place my hand over hers. She freezes mid-dig and shakes her head. “Don’t.”
I pull my hand back, giving her the space she needs. This isn’t about me. It’s about her. The pain in her hands, the ache in her muscles, it’s the only thing that’s real right now, the only thing that can drown out the screams she won’t let herself make.
I watch as she grips the shovel again, her knuckles white, and drives it into the earth with a force that should shatter her.
But she’s not breaking. She’s reforging herself in this fucking mud pit.
Every muscle in my body screams to take the shovel from her, to do this for her, but that would be an insult.
This is her crown, her kingdom, and this is her fucking penance for a war she didn’t start.
So, I turn back to the hole I’m digging.
I drive my shovel into the ground with a savage grunt, the impact jarring up my arms. Fine.
She wants pain? We’ll have fucking pain.
We’ll dig until our hands are raw, until every muscle screams, until this fucking hole is deep enough to bury our enemies alongside these poor bastards.
My rage is a living thing, coiling in my gut. They wanted to show her what power looks like. I’m going to show them what happens when you try to break a queen.
Moments later, the rain falls. Heavy drops splattering on the back of my neck, cold and sharp like a fucking needle.
The rain turns the earth to thick, sucking sludge, making each shovelful a heavier burden.
It plasters Venetia’s hair to her face, runs in rivulets down her muddy cheeks, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.
She just keeps going, a fucking force of nature fuelled by pure, undiluted hate.
Blake and Rafferty return, time and again.
Venetia doesn’t look up. She doesn’t acknowledge the new arrivals. She just carves another chunk of mud from the earth. She’s building a fortress around her heart, and I’m standing guard at the fucking gate. This hole isn’t just a grave. It’s a declaration.
“Enough,” I say to her, as who knows how many hours have passed.
“No,” she spits out. “Keep going.”
“You are no good to anyone, exhausted and screaming in agony when your muscles realise the workout you’ve given them.”
She stops, slamming her shovel into the ground surrounded by graves. “I’m fine.”
“Maybe, but I need a break. We’ll switch with Blake and Rafferty,” I say as they return and place another body in another hole.
She glowers at me, wanting to say so much, but she simply nods and stalks off, expecting me to follow.
“Sorry, guys, you’re on dig duty.”
“Finally,” Raff mutters. “I need something to focus this rage on.”
“Yeah,” I say, clapping a hand on his shoulder before moving after Venetia.
Night is fast approaching, and she is about to drop. I can see it in the way she pauses momentarily to get her balance, placing her hand on the wall of the academy before heading up the stairs to the dining hall.
The dining hall is a silent graveyard. The stench of death assaults my senses, a grim stench that makes my stomach clench.
These students died suddenly and probably painfully.
Some are sitting, some are on the floor.
The crimson messages on the walls and doors mock us, a constant reminder of our failure.
Venetia stops in the middle of the room, swaying on her feet.
The crown is still on her head, a grotesque parody of royalty amidst the carnage.
I’m on her in a second, my hand on her arm to steady her. “That’s it. You’re done.”
“I’m not,” she argues, but her voice is a fucking whisper. She’s running on fumes and hate, and the tank is empty.
I don’t give her a choice. I scoop her up in my arms and stride away from this mess, taking her to Blake’s room. She doesn’t struggle until I place her on the bed and drop to my knees to remove her boots.
“No, I need to get back out there,” she says.
“No, you need rest. Even if you don’t sleep, you have pushed yourself too fucking far, Venetia. Daddy is telling you, it’s time to quit. For now.”
“I can’t,” she says, tears pricking her eyes. “We need to finish this tonight.”
I know why she’s saying this. She doesn’t want it to drag into another day, but we don’t have a choice. “There are too many,” I murmur, brushing a wet strand of hair out of her face.
She lets out a vicious snarl.
“Don’t fucking snarl at me, wildcat,” I growl. “I know you’re hurting. I know you want to burn the whole fucking world down. But you can’t do that if you collapse.”
Her fight drains out of her, replaced by a shuddering exhaustion that racks her small frame.
The tears she’s been holding back finally fall, silent tracks through the mud on her face.
This is the crack in her armour I never wanted to see, the one that makes my heart feel like it’s being ripped from my chest.
I pull her to her feet, and she wobbles, but I ignore her protests and undress her.
She is soaked, muddy, and sweaty. “Shower,” I murmur and cross over to turn it on.
When I return with a towel, she stares up at me with a blank expression.
I go through the motions, cleaning her and washing her hair, but I do it quickly.
She needs to rest, and I need to get back out there.
It pains me to leave her, but I have to.
Helping her into bed, I stroke her head and sit next to her.
I know, despite her pain, she will be asleep in seconds.
She proves me right, and I smile as her breathing deepens.
I reluctantly get up to leave her. I pull on fresh clothes and lock the door behind me.
I quickly check on Lucy, who is not amused in the slightest, and I try to give her some comfort as well before moving back to the dining hall to move dead bodies down to Blake and Raff.
This is going to be a long night, and it’s only just getting started.