Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 27

27

T he crowd’s roar pierces my ears as Preston skates toward me and hits me on the shoulder.

“Nice block, big man!”

Kane pats me on the helmet as I cross my stick with other players’.

Our crowd is going wild, cheering and banging on the boards. It’s understandable, given the way we turned the game around. We were behind against the Knights, mostly because I was sent to the penalty box and they had an effective power play.

What? Number 16 hit Preston, so I had to break his legs. I didn’t manage to actually do that and just flattened him against the ice, and so I found my way back to the annoying box.

Coach Slater was screaming his head off, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, since the main reason I’m here is for the violence anyway.

Hockey has always tamed the raging demons inside me and given me a venting outlet. I’ve been into impact sports since I was young because I could feel the aggression fading away with each blow.

Crunching bones, delivering punches, and sporting bruises all over .

Violence.

A way to fucking feel.

Of all of the sports I tried, hockey is the one that came out on top, and it turns out that I have an innate talent, according to all the hotshot coaches I’ve had. They tried to tame that talent, sculpt it into some boring technical prowess like with Kane and Preston, who I dragged into this, but, really, my unhinged side is what makes Callahan #71.

The beast Callahan.

The ‘watch out for your career if you’re up against him’ Callahan.

The league’s raging bull Callahan.

A fireball. A violent monster.

A goddamn lunatic.

It doesn’t matter what they call me, and it’s not like I love the box. If anything, it irritates me to just sit still instead of being in the midst of the fast-paced action.

I usually get sent to the box multiple times during one game, and sometimes, the coach has to pull me off the rink so I don’t risk misconduct.

This time around, though, I was only in the box once.

And it was due to a very specific reason.

While I was hydrating and looking at the screens showing some of the crowd, I caught a glimpse of someone I never thought I’d see at a hockey game, let alone a Vipers game.

Violet.

The camera was more focused on Dahlia since everyone and their uncle knows she’s Kane’s girl. She’s wearing his jersey and has his number, 19, written on her cheek.

But it wasn’t her that made me pause with the bottle halfway to my mouth. It was Violet standing beside her, looking a bit spooked by the chaos. She’s wearing a Graystone Ridge sweatshirt that’s not too tight but also not that loose either.

What is…Violet doing here?

I know she must’ve been dragged to the game by Dahlia, but I heard Dahlia ask her the other time, and she vehemently refused. She also refused when I asked her to come over a week ago.

What changed?

Violet shifted slightly, pushing her glasses up her nose, touching her wrist a bit as she watched the game.

No.

Violet wasn’t really following the action like everyone else.

Was she looking at the penalty box?

The camera went back to the game before I could make sure, but I’m certain she wasn’t focused on the team like the rest of the crowd.

I could be reading too much into it, but ever since I was released from the penalty box, I have never gone back in.

Because how the fuck could she watch me if I was stuck in a useless cage?

Not that I’m sure she came here to watch me per se.

I’m fully aware she despises the idea of sports or anything of the sort. But as I skate back to defense, cleanly checking the Knights’ center, I can’t help but think maybe Violet truly is here for me.

Even though it hasn’t been long since the first time I fucked her, it feels like forever ago.

Like I’ve been fucking Violet my whole goddamn life. Like she fucking exists for me.

I’ve had my fair share of sex, but none of it compares to the way my whole being resurrects the moment I touch Violet. It’s damning and electrifying, and I didn’t stop that first time.

Couldn’t stop.

Maybe it’s because I’d wanted to fuck her for a long time, maybe it’s because I couldn’t get enough of the throaty erotic noises she released or how she tentatively touched me.

Whatever the reason, I shouldn’t have blurted everything out about my mother the next morning.

I still don’t know why I did that.

It wasn’t so she’d apologize or feel guilty. In reality, I don’t think I ever meant to kill Violet Winters like I have the other targets.

Maybe I would’ve if I hadn’t met her first and she hadn’t given me her umbrella and a protein bar. Or maybe I would’ve still seen the true Violet and decided not to hurt her either way.

Sometimes, I think my rage toward her, my inability to stay away, and all the fucking bad habits I developed because of her are just my mind’s way of rebelling against the logic that I should kill her for not saving Mom.

And maybe I should.

But I won’t.

Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.

Not when I’m goddamn addicted to her.

Her rose scent, her abundant smiles, her beautiful grace, and her irrevocably kind nature.

But mostly, it’s the way she submits to me, how she looks at me with hooded eyes, and how she traces her fingers along my tattoos as if she wants to memorize them.

Especially the barren tree tattoo. I’ll catch her looking at it and my scars whenever I’m naked. Which is most of the time when I’m in her company .

Since the time I first fucked her, I’ve been doing it every day. Sneaking into her house—or kind of walking in, really—waiting for her to come home so I can snatch and fuck her against the door like a feral animal.

And Violet loves that. She’s even started wearing sexy lingerie beneath her clothes for the daily fucking. Her favorite type of sex is when I wake her up with my mouth, fingers, or cock.

She truly loves somnophilia, my Violet, getting so wet and noisy and then coming for such a long time.

She doesn’t tell me directly, but she writes her thoughts in her journal that she knows fully well I read.

I loved last night so much. Not only was the sex so intense and amazing, but also waking up with his mouth on my pussy made me even more turned on. Next time, I want to be woken up with penetration. I know, I know. Something’s wrong with me.

He listened. I want more, but I can’t say it out loud, so I’m writing about it here.

I think I’m having too much mind-blowing sex lately. Is this normal?

It was a form of communication, I suppose. Even though I’d rather she ask for what she wants directly, but we’ll get there.

Eventually.

I still don’t know what there is or what the fuck we’re even doing, but I refuse the very idea of not spending my nights in the penthouse, slipping into Violet’s bed like a degenerate stalker and fucking her brains out.

It should be disturbing, the reason I even came into her life, but I couldn’t care less.

Even as I’m playing right now, I lift my head and look at where she’s standing .

Our eyes meet, and she pauses in the middle of whispering something to Dahlia.

She’s in the front row, across from me, with only the glass separating us, and I can see a blush creeping up her neck and onto her face.

Fuck.

God fucking dammit.

Now, I can’t stop picturing the red marks I left on her ass last night as I fucked her from behind or the throat hickeys she’s covering with a turtleneck beneath the sweatshirt.

Violet bites her lower lip, and I’m hit with memories of my teeth sinking into those lips as I fucked and spanked her and made her scream⁠—

Something hard slams into me, and I’m flattened against the boards.

A collective gasp echoes through the crowd, and Violet brings both hands to her mouth as I straighten and consider smashing the motherfucker who cut off my thoughts.

But then again, I decided not to make another trip to the box tonight.

I do check him for the rest of the game, cleanly but violently. I target the piece of shit so much, he starts to avoid me.

Good.

Next time, he’ll learn not to fucking touch me.

We ended up winning after flipping the game’s score in our favor.

The crowd’s cheers of excitement pierce through my skin, yet all I can look for is Violet.

But she’s already being dragged toward the exit by Dahlia.

She pauses for a bit, staring behind her, and when her eyes meet mine, her lips twitch in a small smile, and she lifts a thumb up.

And then she’s gone, mingling with the crowd.

For a long time after she’s out of sight, I’m standing in the middle of the rink, gripping my stick so tight, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap.

What the fuck?

Why is my heart beating so loudly that I feel like I need medical intervention?

It can’t be because Violet smiled at me and gave me a thumbs-up, right?

No.

It must be the high of the game. It has to be.

I’m shoved by Preston, and I nearly lose my balance as he headlocks me. “You were fucking phenomenal, big man. But only right after me, because I’m obviously the motherfucking best.”

“Phenomenal game.” Kane fist-bumps me.

“Callahan!” Coach Slater shouts at me.

He’s a veteran of the game, born and bred in Graystone Ridge. He was one of the hotshot players who told me about my innate talent, but he also truly and irrevocably hates my penchant for violence. But, mostly, he despises my wasted potential and my time spent in the penalty box.

“From now on, that’s exactly how you play!” he tells me, giving me a fatherly pat on my shoulder.

I’m soon swept away to the locker room with teammates who are celebrating and being extra noisy.

As soon as I walk out of the shower and start putting on some clothes, I slide up beside Kane, who’s already dressed and is stretching.

This guy finishes showering in a minute, I swear. But then again, Kane’s never liked displaying his scars or putting his unfortunate past on full display.

I throw a shirt over my head. “Is Dahlia coming to the club tonight?”

He lifts a brow as he presses on his leg. “Why?”

“For the celebration. She knows the regular place, no?”

“Yes, but what I’m asking about is why you would care whether or not my girlfriend is coming.”

“Nobody gives a fuck about your girlfriend, Davenport.” Preston slides in like a fucking hyena, wrapping both his arms around our necks. “Big man here wants to know whether or not Darcy would bring her sister like she dragged her to the game.”

I flick him on the forehead. “How do you know there was dragging? Maybe she came voluntarily.”

“To see me. Of course she would! No one hears about the legendary Preston Armstrong and misses the chance to see me in full-blown action. I’m God’s gift to peasants.”

“It’s God’s gift to women,” I say.

“I meant peasants. Fuck off. Anyway, I bet money Vee will come along.”

“Her name is Violet.” I elbow him, and he grunts, releasing us.

“ Vee will come.” He makes a face at me, then tilts his head in Kane’s direction. “Right?”

“Not sure, and I would rather you stay away from her, Jude. Dahlia doesn’t like it, and I’m also not a fan.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your and Dahlia’s likes and dislikes.”

In fact, I still want to punch the motherfucker because Violet used to praise his style of playing. Pacifist, boring, technical powerhouse captain .

I’m the one who dragged him into hockey, so I should get the credit for any of the praise he gets.

“Callahan.” The coach’s voice cuts into the locker room like an arrow as he tilts his head to the side. “My office.”

The guys hoot and give me shit as I trail behind him. “I thought I played well?”

“For once,” he grumbles, and I shake my head.

Not sure why he’s even singling me out instead of Kane, but I ignore that as I check my phone in case Violet texted me.

Over the past week, I’ve been the one who mostly texts, and she barely replies. And if she texts first, it’s about food.

Do you have any allergies? Is there any type of food you don’t like?

Negative on all accounts.

I told her not to cook and that I could get the best meals from my chef, but she always has something ready. I stopped asking her not to after I realized that she looks truly happy when she’s cooking. She’ll have a smile on her face and sway to songs on the radio.

And, really, knowing Violet only ever cooked for Dahlia makes me feel special. Not to mention that her cooking is better than five-star meals.

“There we are.” Coach stops at the entrance to his office.

I lift my head, and my jaw locks when I see my father standing in the middle of the office, scrolling through Coach’s notes.

He always has things to say to the coaches about my stats, my performance, and my ability to improve more.

I’ve only ever been a machine to this man.

Coach Slater can’t even lift his head in front of Regis Callahan or argue, not when my father could have him blacklisted not only from town, but also from hockey .

He slowly retreats and closes the door, leaving me alone with the one person I hate more than anything, despite his blood that flows through my veins.

My father lifts his head. “Almost perfect stats tonight.”

Regis Callahan is a man carved out of marble and ice, untouched by time or weakness.

His posture is rigid, as if every movement is measured for maximum control. Silver streaks through his dark-brown hair, perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, a contrast to the harsh lines of his face.

Julian and I inherited some of his features. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes as dark brown as mine, but his gaze holds cold precision.

He’s always in tailored suits, crisp and immaculate, not a wrinkle to be found, because disorder has no place in his world.

Which is why Mom’s fits grated on his nerves. He was absent, uncaring, or downright ruthless with his doctors and institutes that he forced my mother into.

“If that’s all…” I turn toward the door.

“I’m being civil by talking to you here instead of dragging you to the house. Don’t make me lock you up, Jude.”

I grind my teeth and face him, wearing the poker face he engraved into me one whip at a time. “If you have free time to come to a college hockey game, maybe you should spend it on your golden child, Julian.”

He folds the book closed. “I choose to spend it watching my son play hockey. Is that an issue?”

“Not really, as long as I don’t have to see you.”

“Jude.” His voice betrays the slightest hint of impatience. “You’re pushing it.”

“I thought I did that a long time ago. ”

He releases a long breath, his chest straining against his shirt. “How long will you be indulging in these self-destructive habits and cutting me out of your life?”

“Forever is a good start.”

“You wish to follow the path your mother took, is that it?”

I stride toward him, then stop because I won’t stoop as low as him. “ Took? Are you wording it as if she had a choice? Is mental illness a fucking choice ? You’re the one who ruined her!”

He doesn’t shift. Doesn’t budge, just stares at me with unfeeling eyes. “Apparently, she ruined you, too.”

“What—”

“Listen, Jude. I was ready to turn a blind eye to your impulsive, fruitless revenge as long as you kept yourself in check. I forbid Julian from interfering with your way of blowing off steam and even provided you with the manpower to do as you damn well pleased, but you need to stop being so obsessed with your mother and her disturbed mind.”

“Did you just…call it disturbed mind?”

“It was. Deep down, even with all the coping mechanisms and memory-filtering you seem to do, you know she wasn’t normal.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Join me and Julian for dinner sometime and we can talk about it if you wish.”

“No.”

“Do so while I’m asking nicely, Jude.”

He leaves, but I’m shaking with rage and the need to scream in his face.

Punch him.

Bash his fucking head in.

But I don’t, because that would mean he’s right, and he’s getting in my head, and that’s simply off the table.

Regis did manage to accomplish something tonight, though, agitate the fuck out of me .

I was in a good mood until he forced me to be in the same room with his repulsive presence.

So even when I make it to the club downtown that we usually go to after our wins, I’m feeling murderous.

The moment I pull into the parking lot, I see Violet.

But she’s not alone.

And my vision is red.