Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 4

4

T he end of the unofficial summer skate leaves me with…nothing.

Just another flare of violence.

Another burst of light.

But then it’s all done.

And I’m back to square one.

Violent-less. With these goddamn urges still coursing through my veins with the blood.

Slipping beneath every ridge of tense muscle, every scar, tattoo, and godforsaken memory.

The shower is scalding, but it does nothing to burn off the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. My muscles ache in that raw way that should imply I left everything on the ice.

But I didn’t.

This rage is uncontainable. Indestructible.

No amount of hockey violence can rip me from its clutches.

I shut the water off and rake a hand through my hair, pushing it back as I step into the locker room, the thick scent of sweat, tape, and victory hanging in the air. The place is alive with noise—guys shoving each other, laughing, and talking about the game .

“Nice hit out there, Callahan.” Ryder slaps me on the back as I pass, his grin sharp and his eyes still wild with post-game energy. “Thought you were gonna take Hunter’s head clean off.”

“Should’ve. Next time.” I yank a towel off the bench, rolling my shoulders, not caring that everyone can see the map of scars on my back, partially concealed by tattoos.

Half of the guys here know the reason, and the other half wouldn’t dare ask.

“Fucking savage,” Drayton, our goalie, mutters, shaking his head as he laces up his dress shoes. “You play like you’ve got a personal vendetta against the ice itself.”

“Ice started it.” I reach into my locker.

A few guys chuckle. Others are chirping about a missed play. Even though it’s summer, elite college hockey teams like the Vipers don’t really take time off. We often do captain-led practices—whether it’s skates, scrimmages, or drills.

The coaches are technically not involved—aside from conditioning and strength coaches during some sessions—but really, it’s all due to a program created by our captain, Kane.

He’s currently leaning against the lockers, already fully dressed, and going through his phone.

Unlike me, he doesn’t like showcasing his scars. Not that I love it per se, but it’s a fuck-you to the system, so everyone can see what type of monster my father truly is.

Not that I’m any better. Birds of a feather and all that.

“Davenport,” I call Kane’s last name, and he lifts his head, his expression calm, his face so welcoming, you’d think he was an angel. “I need a word.”

“About your irresponsible play?” He lifts a brow. “Sure.”

I pause after grabbing my deodorant. “I only got sent to the box twice. ”

“One is overkill.”

“I was still the best player.”

“Nah, that’s me.” Preston lifts his hand in my peripheral vision. He’s sitting on the bench, a towel hanging low on his hips, one ankle resting on his knee like he owns the damn room.

He pauses taping his wrist, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Hell of a game, Callahan, but we all know I’m the fan favorite. Even though it was a practice game, there’s already an article.” He slides his hands in the air as if unveiling the title. “Armstrong, the league’s undefeated left wing strikes again, even during the offseason.”

I lift a brow. “Pay the reporter?”

“Stay jealous, big man. Now, more importantly, how’s my hair?”

“Like roadkill on a humid day.”

“I see you’re still jealous.” He pats his styled blond strands. “Don’t listen to Jude’s nonsense, my premium genetics.”

“And yet those premium genetics still lost the puck battle against a guy built like a traffic cone,” I remind him, just out of spite.

Pres, Kane, and I grew up together, but Pres is probably my best friend. Kane has always been self-contained in a way, never goes too high or too low, perfectly able to remain calm under duress, then shove himself back into a mold. He has the type of control Pres and I lack in spades.

So we inevitably grew closer. In a sense, Pres’s sickness speaks to mine and his darkness mirrors my own.

We’re the toxic duo everyone hates to see coming.

Preston tuts, unfazed. “That was strategy, Callahan. Gotta let the little guys think they have a chance before you yeet the whole damn carpet into next week. ”

“It’s ‘pull the rug out from under them,’ not whatever crime against language you just committed.”

“I meant to add my special twist.”

I chuck a roll of tape at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Nah, you just don’t know your idioms.”

“I do.” He catches the tape before it rolls onto the floor, then stands, squaring up to me with a taunting dimpled grin. “You’re the boring prick who has not one ounce of creativity in his thick head.”

“I’ll knock your teeth out.”

“Oooh, is that a threat?”

“Fuck around and find out, Armstrong.”

“Oh my.” He lifts a hand to his chest in mock disbelief. “You have the heart to hurt my beautiful face?”

“Is beautiful in the room with us?”

“Pfft. You jealous, petty bitch? One day you’ll appreciate my genius more.”

“Doubt it.”

“That’s what they all say before they realize they can’t live without me. Oh, the horror. Imagine not having me in your life?”

I pause, my index finger tapping my lip as I pretend to be thinking. “Pretty peaceful, actually.”

“Why do you lie?” He’s about to punch me, but Kane steps in with the usual sigh of exasperation he gives when Pres and I bicker or start hitting each other for no reason whatsoever.

Actually, that reason is aggression. Something Kane can rise above but we can’t.

“If you’re done fighting like chickens, get dressed, Jude. I don’t have all night.”

Kane leaves first, and I throw on my sweatpants and shirt in record time before following him to the coach’s office down the hall of Vipers Arena—the pride and joy of Graystone University and, honestly, the entire town of Graystone Ridge.

We were born and bred here, raised in this pocket of wealth where centuries-old tradition collides with modern edge.

A place where old money doesn’t fade—it evolves, sharpens, and makes sure everyone remembers who built this town.

I find Kane leaning against the desk, staring at his phone with a tilted head and a hooded expression.

Not sure who or what captured his attention, but it’s bad news for the other party. While it’s true that he’s calm and collected, like all of us, he was born with a demon lurking inside him.

“Sorry I’m late!” Preston barges in behind me. “Not really sorry, but anyway. I’m here now. You’re welcome, bitches.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” I grunt as I close the door he left wide open.

“Nonsense. Everything has to do with me.” He grins, trudging to Kane’s side and hitting his shoulder. “What’s the plan? And don’t be boring.”

Kane doesn’t acknowledge either of us for a while, still staring at his phone.

Even though Kane is the captain, he shouldn’t have free access to the coach’s office.

In theory, at least.

In practice, the three of us have unrestricted access—not just to Graystone University, or GU, but to the entire town of Graystone Ridge.

Our clearance comes in the form of the black ring on each of our index fingers.

They’re more than just symbols of status. They’re proof that we belong—not only to the founding families of this town, but to the secret society that shadows it.

Vencor.

Callahan. Davenport. Armstrong. Osborn.

The four pillars of Graystone Ridge. The originators of Vencor. The ones who’ve held this place together—and in their grip—for generations.

The black rings mean we’re Senior members.

The highest rank attainable for anyone outside of direct bloodlines.

Trial, Member, Senior, and Founder.

That’s the order.

And while we currently hold Senior status, we’re in the final stretch. After graduation, we’ll face our last trial and ascend to the position we were always meant to inherit.

Founder.

Kane taps his index finger against the back of his phone. His ring bears the Davenport family crest—a compass rose. It’s a symbol of control, steering direction, and navigating dominance. Fitting, considering the Davenports have monopolized the import and export industry.

I twirl my own ring slowly.

It’s etched with the Callahan crest—a caduceus twisted in thorny vines.

A corrupted version of the medical symbol.

It represents our family’s unrelenting grip on the pharmaceutical sector. Hell, ever since my brother, Julian, took over the Callahan empire, we’ve become unrivaled.

Pres wears the Armstrong crest—a sun and a crescent moon. A nod to his family’s hold on energy, in all its forms.

Then there are the Osborns. They don’t currently have a college-aged member—at least, not officially—but their crest is a lion’s head framed with gears, reflecting their control over real estate, construction, and every inch of urban development in this town.

Over the centuries, the four families learned to carefully and calculatedly share power.

That uneasy balance eventually gave birth to Vencor, the society we now oversee.

It’s through Vencor that we’ve built our empire—recruiting, shaping, and eliminating as needed. Ensuring that Graystone Ridge stays exactly the way it was always meant to be and that our legacy never dies.

“What the hell are you watching?” Pres peers over Kane’s shoulder. “Is it porn? If yes, why am I not invited?”

Kane slips his phone into his pocket and shoves Pres away. “Why are you even here?”

Pres releases an exasperated sigh. “You keep asking that, and yet you can’t live without me.”

“Highly debatable.”

“You little ungrateful cretin⁠—”

“Anyway.” Kane slides his attention to me. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I need another name from the list,” I speak in a calm tone I don’t feel.

He raises a brow. “You already took care of Violet?”

My throat constricts, and I feel the veins popping in my neck, my muscles tightening and sporadic fire spreading across my skin.

At just the mention of her name.

All their names.

And she is just another fucking name .

“It’s time for the next name,” I say, ignoring his question.

“What the fuck!” Preston jumps up. “Why haven’t I been on this Violet’s hunt, big man? I thought we were bros, but then you go on killing sprees without inviting me?”

“There was no hunt.” Kane tilts his head to the side. “Was there?”

“That’s none of your business. Give me the next name.”

“Whoa. Hold up.” Pres stalks toward me, then circles me. “You mean to tell me you’ve had this Violet’s name for a while, and it didn’t result in a hunt? Blink once if you’ve been possessed.”

“Kane,” I growl, ignoring Pres’s buzzing. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m curious is all.” He crosses his arms. “Is this a new pattern? Not finishing off your targets?”

“No. I just have a different plan for her. And stop asking questions.”

“All right, I’ll leave you to it.” Kane pushes off the desk and comes closer, shoving Preston, who’s been circling and poking me, out of the way, then whispers in my ear, “Remember, the sister stays out of whatever you’re doing.”

I stare down at him. “Depends on how fast you are with that name.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know, your brother has been threatening me to stop enabling your violent sprees.”

“My brother can go fuck himself. I expect a file in my inbox tomorrow at the latest.”

He grunts out a reply and leaves.

“Heeey…” Preston whispers near my ear, resuming poking me. “Do you hear me? Will the real Jude please stand up?”

“Fuck off.” I swat him away.

“Oh, you’re back, big man.” He grins. “I was on the verge of starting an exorcism side gig and shit. Might accidentally become a cult leader, though. Not that I’m against the idea per se, but those fanatics can be crazy, not that I’m less crazy, so maybe it’s not a bad idea. Think Dad would finally disown me once I’m on the news…?”

I leave him blabbering and stride out of the office, but, of course, he falls in step beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Sooo, Violetta, huh? Are we stalking? Because I have the perfect hoodie.”

My shoulders tense, but I feign indifference. “You are not stalking, Pres.”

“Why not?”

“Because you start shouting ‘This is stupid. Let’s fuck them up instead!’ ten minutes in.”

“I mean, it kind of was. Your previous targets that I had the misfortune of stalking were more boring than monogamy, and we all know that’s, like, my least favorite thing. But —” He headlocks me. “You’re not killing this Veronica or hunting her after all this time, so she must not be boring. I want to see for myself.”

“No.” I punch him in the side. Hard.

“Fucking hell.” He grunts, releasing me and bending over, then grins with a manic edge. “ That interesting?”

I leave even as his unhinged laughter echoes in the air.

Well, fuck me sideways.

I think I just piqued Preston’s interest in something neither he nor Kane should know about.