Page 12 of Venomous Games

There is a line.

There has always been a line.

This isn’t the hunt.

This isn’t justice.

This shit is sloppy, cruel, and weak.

She spits blood at him, still fighting even after the pummeling she’s taken. I feel it then; not just the anger but something sharper. Respect. She says something I can’t hear, but I see the defiance in the set of her mouth.

Then she tries to break free again, and Marcus eventually lets her go. My eyes narrow, absorbing every detail and committing it to memory. The way she walks away from them, head held high but with a slight quiver in her step. The way they watch her go, a hint of malice in their eyes.

“This will be an issue,” Soren says, pulling my attention back to him. But the tension doesn’t fade. It roils under my skin. An issue. That’s what he calls it? An issue?

“I plan to pay her a visit today,” I tell him, my tone level.

“Good. Clean up the mess. The last thing we need is a woman making a police report about what happens at our parties.” He looks at each of us, and I nod in confirmation.

We leave without another word, knowing each other well enough that we don’t have to say goodbye.

On the drive home, it’s silent; I don’t even have the radio playing. When I finally pull into my driveway, I park the car and go through my normal routine. Home is the one place that never changes for me.

Taking my shoes off, I put my keys in the dish where they belong before I walk deeper into the apartment and then take a seat at the dining room table. I remove my gun and place it on the wooden surface, staring at it. I used to watch my father do the same thing every afternoon once he’d finished his shift. He would take the gun apart, then clean the pieces without saying a word, and I would watch and learn. I’m the man I am today because of the way my father was. I try not to think of him often, but on days like this, with a gun in front of me, it’s hard to keep him from my thoughts.

SEVEN

MAVEN

One thing about my job is that I never assassinate someone based on my emotions. It’s why I don’t meet the clients or associate with them. It keeps it clean and professional—no strings, no attachments, no mistakes. Carrie handles all that and somehow also manages the money while still keeping contracts coming. And none of that gives anyone the right to touch her.

While I tell myself I never mix work with personal life, that doesn’t mean you get to fuck around and find out.

Right now, my hands twitch at my sides, fingers flexing near the knife in my jeans. My muscles are taut, my pulse beats rapidly, and a low hum of adrenaline buzzes through my veins.

I pull up to her building on the Ducati, the roar of the engine fading as I kill it and tuck my helmet under my arm. My gaze immediately locks on a car parked out front I’ve never seen, its dark silhouette unnatural against the dim glow of the streetlight. My body stills for a fraction of a second as every instinct I’ve honed over the years kicks in—scanning angles, approaches, escape routes, the way the shadows fall, the possibility of someone waiting … watching.

My jaw tightens. I’m already running contingencies, calculating the weight of my fury at the man who attacked her versus the simmering annoyance at Carrie for her reckless choices.

I stay seated on the bike for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, every nerve ending firing. Because if that car moves, if someone steps out, I’ll have them accounted for before they even know what hit them.

My eyes remain glued to the car like it might explain itself if I stare long enough.

It doesn’t.

The walk up the stairs feels heavier than usual. With my pulse ticking faster, I don’t bother knocking as I shove the door open, shoulder first, scanning the room in a single sweep, when my gaze suddenly lands on someone who shouldn’t be here.

And I stop dead.

Boston is standing in the living room.

For a second, we stare at each other. His gaze slowly scrolls over me, from my boots to my legs, where it lingers just long enough to be irritating, before landing on the motorcycle helmet tucked against my side. One corner of his mouth lifts like he’s amused by something only he understands.

I give him the same treatment, noting the black trousers and dark blue jacket encasing his body. My jaw clenches at the sight of him. He looks too good. And I don’t trust him.

Why is he here?

Glancing around again, I look for Carrie, and my gut clenches when I don’t see her.