39. Viper
Viper
T he rock presses in on me, scraping against my shoulders. It smells of death and dirt. I hate this shit. Give me open ground, a dark alley where I can see my enemy coming. Not a fucking mole tunnel where I can’t even swing my arms properly.
But Venetia’s behind me. Her smart-mouthed, ‘Yes, Daddy’ sent a jolt straight to my cock. She knows exactly how to play me.
My phone torch beam cuts a pathetic path through the black.
The passage is so tight I have to turn sideways in places.
My knuckles graze the rough stone. A skittering sound echoes from up ahead.
Fucking rats. My jaw clenches. I’d rather face a dozen men with guns than one of those filthy, plague-ridden bastards.
I feel Venetia’s hand on my back, a light touch that steadies me. “You okay?” she whispers, her voice a soft caress against the oppressive silence.
“Fucking peachy,” I grunt, pushing forward. The tunnel widens slightly, opening into another small chamber. This one isn’t empty.
A skeleton sits propped against the far wall, clad in the tattered remains of a centuries-old uniform. An old sword lies across its lap.
“Don’t look,” I mutter to Venetia.
“Fuck’s sake,” she grumbles.
My light scans the small chamber, landing on a rusty iron ring set into the floor. A trapdoor. I kneel down, my hand closing around the cold, pitted metal. Another layer to this fucking maze.
“Down?” Blake says slowly.
“Looks like.”
I give it a heave, the metal groaning in protest before it gives way, revealing a set of steep, stone steps leading even deeper into the fucking darkness.
“More steps,” I grit out. This castle is determined to bury us.
But we’re not going to let it. We’re going to own every fucking inch of it before Cravenmoor decides to show his face.
He will be scrambling now. His sure thing of knowing our every move has been wiped out, and he has no idea what to fucking do now.
Men like him are a dime a dozen. Relying on tech and the ‘new way’ to get shit done.
I prefer to use my wits, my grit, and my survival instincts.
It will get me a hell of a lot farther than some rich dick with too much money and time on his hands.
I stare down into the black maw. “Right,” I grunt, not giving myself time to think about it.
I place my foot on the first step. “Stay close,” I order Venetia.
Her hand rests on my shoulder for a second, a silent acknowledgement before she follows.
The rest of them trail behind, their torch beams dancing nervously on the slick, stone walls.
These steps are steeper, narrower. The passage at the bottom is wider, thank fuck.
I can finally stand up straight without my head scraping the ceiling.
We’re in a tunnel that feels more deliberately constructed, less like a fucking rat hole.
We keep walking, the darkness somehow getting even more oppressive.
“We are going back on ourselves,” Blake says after a few moments.
“For what purpose?” Peter asks, but it’s clearly rhetorical since none of us fuckers can give him an answer.
The air gets colder, heavier, smelling of stone and forgotten time. The beam of my phone torch slashes over slick, wet walls.
“Well, fucking hell,” Blake murmurs. “We are headed directly for the chapel.”
“Shawshank,” Peter whispers, his voice filled with awe.
My light finds a section of the wall where the mortar looks different, newer than the surrounding stones. I run my hand over it. It’s smooth. Too smooth. I push.
With a low groan of protesting rock, a section of the wall swings inwards.
Cold, familiar air rushes out to meet us, carrying the faint, metallic scent of old blood.
We step through the opening and into the chapel dungeon.
The one we already found. The one with the fucking skeletons chained to the walls.
I stare at the hidden door we just came through and heave a sigh. This is pissing me off on a grand scale.
It’s not just a maze. It’s a fucking web. Tunnels connecting the main residence, the old Keep, and the chapel. A secret network woven beneath the ground. Cravenmoor thinks these are his private little rat runs.
He’s wrong. They’re our hunting grounds now.
“Great,” Venetia says. “We’re basically chasing our tails here.”
“Maybe,” Blake says. “But we know that all of this connects to the exits. The two exits that we’ve found.”
“So far.”
“That’s probably it,” Peter says. “They wouldn’t have wanted to leave themselves wide open. One tunnel to get the Lord out of the Keep, the exit they took depends on where the enemy was stationed.”
I turn my glare on him. “What are you? Blake two point oh?”
“I like castles,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”
“Yes,” Venetia says and turns back to the door we came through.
“Fucking finally,” I mutter, turning to follow her. The thought of fresh air, of open space, is like a drug. My shoulders ache from being hunched over, and my knuckles are raw from scraping against the stone.
The trek back is just as shit as the journey in. I keep close to Venetia, probably pissing her off, but tough shit.
Blake is tapping on his fucking tablet the whole way, his face lit by the screen’s glow. He looks like a fucking nerd, but a deadly one. Raff is a ghost behind us. I can barely hear him breathe.
We emerge back into the corridor by the tapestry, blinking in the dim light that feels blinding after the tomb-like blackness. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air that doesn’t taste of dirt and death.
“Never again,” I growl to no one in particular.
Venetia just smirks at me. “Don’t be a baby.”
Before I can come back with a retort, Raff’s phone buzzes. He answers, listens, and his whole body goes rigid. He looks at Blake, then at me, his eyes dark.
“What?” I demand.
“That was my dad,” he says, his voice flat and dangerous. “He’s got eyes on Cravenmoor’s estate up north. He says there’s activity. Black vans crawling all over it.”
“He’s preparing to move out,” I state.
“Looks that way.”
“Then let’s be ready to greet the fucker when he gets here.”
Venetia nods. “Blake? Any update on the dismantling of his assets? If he’s paying these mercenaries, they’re going to want their money before they move out.”
“I’m working on it,” Blake says, still tapping on his screen. “It’s a little more complicated. His estate is protected by the state.”
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” Venetia snaps.
“Well, it makes sense,” Peter starts, but then goes quiet when Venetia shoots him a look that could wither an ancient oak.
“So we do this the old way,” I say with a beam, happy that things are going back to my way of doing shit.
“Gee, don’t look so fucking miserable about it,” Venetia mutters.
“I’m gunning for a fight. The more of these arseholes I can pound into the ground, the better.”
Her eyes light up, filling with heat and desire. She enjoys the violence of it. Involuntarily, my hand brushes over the bite mark she gave me. She sees it and licks her lips.
My cock hardens. She wants this. She wants the fucking carnage. She wants to see me unleashed. “You like that, wildcat?” I growl, closing the distance between us until my chest brushes against hers. “The thought of me ripping them apart for you?”
“I like the thought of doing it with you,” she breathes, her green eyes turning molten. Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, her fingers stroking the bite mark she left on my neck. It’s a fucking brand. A claim.
I’m about to drag her back to our room and bend her over the bed when Blake clears his throat, the sound sharp and intrusive. “Assuming they load up and leave, they’re going to be here soon. Thirty miles away, we placed him. An hour minimum unless we get a miracle.”
Fucking strategist. Always ruining the fun.
But he’s right. The heat between me and Venetia cools to a low simmer. War first. Fucking later.
“Right,” she says, stepping back, her queen persona snapping back into place. “What about your dad’s people?” she asks Raff.
He shakes his head. “They are too far out to get here in time. Besides, this is our problem. We will deal with it.”
“Damn straight,” she replies.
Her word is law. My queen has spoken. The hunger for her doesn’t fade, it just sharpens into a different kind of need—the need to spill blood in her name.
I nod. “Let’s get the welcome party ready then.”
“Raff,” Venetia says, her voice snapping with authority, “get to the north tower. I want you picking them off before they even see the gates. Blake, Peter, you’re our eyes. Viper, get our soldiers into position on the battlements.”
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “I’m going to paint these walls with their blood for you,” I whisper, the promise a vicious vow.
She shivers, a subtle reaction that sends a jolt of raw power straight to my cock. She doesn’t reply; she doesn’t need to. We understand each other on this primal level.
I pull back, my gaze locking with hers for one last moment before the storm breaks. Then I turn and stride towards the quad, my purpose clear, my blood singing with the anticipation of the fight.
Raff gives me a sharp nod before disappearing up the stairs towards the tower, a ghost on his way to his nest. Blake is already gone, swallowed by the corridors, heading for wherever he’s setting up his command centre.
I find our little army gathered in the great hall. They look at me, waiting.
“It’s time. Grab your weapons and get to the battlements. You see anything that isn’t us, you shoot to kill. Move!”
They scramble, a well-oiled machine of adrenaline and expensive gear. I lead them up the winding stone staircases to the outer walls. The wind whips at us up here, cold and sharp. Below, the grounds stretch out, an empty killing field. Perfect.