Page 7 of Venomous Games

“You do know what’s going on here, right?” he presses, leaning closer, his tone patronizing.

“And what is that?” I shrug, forcing my gaze elsewhere, though my fists clench at the absurdity of him.

“In case you haven’t noticed, this is quite literally a fuck fest,” he grits out angrily.

I let a slow, dry laugh escape, tilt my head, and let my gaze cut back to him. “Thanks. I have two working eyes, but what would little ole me do without a man to explain it?” My tone is low and mocking, but sharp-edged.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m guessing that’s why someone like you is here. Bored, spoiled … in need of a new sugar daddy to bend over for.”

I take a slow breath, letting the tension roll off me. “I supply my own sugar. Now, step back, asshole.” My eyes narrow. Inside, I’m already calculating—one wrong move, and he’ll wish he hadn’t opened his mouth.

The bartender slides a whiskey toward me, the burn of it promising temporary relief from the hum of the room. I let my gaze wander subtly over the three men standing nearby, their reflections showcased in the mirror behind the bar. They’re all known to me.

Boston’s presence hits first. Broad-shouldered, tall, clothes perfectly tailored to showcase his form, hair dark and styled just right. His eyes, slate gray and sharp, scan the room like he’s measuring it, calculating every move. I can feel him, even with two feet of space between us. He smells faintly of leather and cedar, expensive cologne hiding something darker underneath. I straighten my back, taking a steadying breath.

The man to his left leans slightly over the bar, arms crossed, shoulders hunched in a way that radiates boredom or sullen disinterest. Brooding. The other, smiling too effortlessly, is nodding. He’s polished, practiced, the type who thinks charm can smooth over anything. I take in their postures, the subtle differences in tone, the way their eyes dart or linger.

Then Boston’s voice drops into the space beside me, low, deliberate, and vicious. “I hate these things. Full of desperate women looking to fuck their next soon-to-be husband.”

I don’t flinch. I let the whiskey warm my throat, then lift my glass just enough to mask my irritation with casual composure. His eyes slide to me, and I sense the arrogant and condescending challenge there. I raise a brow, lips tilting just slightly, and sip, letting his words wash over me. My non-reaction is the biggest fuck you to a guy this cynical and jaded.

“Boston, play nice,” the third man says, clipped but amused, as if he knows Boston well. I shift my stance, subtly turning just enough to give the impression of casual attention while I eavesdrop.

“I play nice,” Boston says, voice dripping over me like a dare. I feel it, sense it, and inwardly count every second.

I take another sip of whiskey, fingertips brushing the rim, watching him without blinking. My muscles are relaxed, but every sense is on alert, cataloging everything about him—height, build, the slight twitch of his hand, the way his jaw tightens when he’s sizing me up. I came here for a drink. Not an argument, not a challenge, not a man thinking he can dictate my attention. But I take another slow sip and let him stew in the quiet confidence that I’m not here for him—and neither is my knife.

“Have you found the killer yet?” Soren asks quietly, catching my attention. Killer. My pulse ticks up just slightly. I tilt my head, feigning disinterest, letting my gaze drift across the room, taking in the glint of chandeliers, the chatter, the movement of bodies.

“No,” Boston replies, tone clipped and deliberate.

“You will. And when you do…” Soren trails off.

“Hunt.” Boston’s single word slices through the hum of the room, and a small, unreadable smile touches his lips.

I take a slow pull of whiskey, letting the burn hide the pulse that won’t settle.

Hunt.

Why are they asking Boston about a killer? Something about the way they’re talking to him sets off alarm bells inside me. He’s not just a man being questioned. He’s someone who understands the weight of that word.

I sip my whiskey again, slower this time, pretending I’m focused on the burn, but my gaze keeps sliding back to him.

And now I want to know why they brought it up here, in front of me, and what it really means.

Interesting…

FOUR

BOSTON

All I can smell is her—vanilla, faint and clean, a sharp contrast to the alcohol and perfume swirling around the room. She’s standing too close for comfort, but acknowledging that would give her power, and I don’t do that.

I keep my attention on Soren, nodding, replying, my words measured. Meanwhile, I take her in, in quiet, practiced increments. She’s short, but those heels that adorn her feet make her appear taller. How she walks in them I will never know, but she does so confidently, as if she could almost run a marathon and not complain. Interesting. The dress she’s wearing clings to her in all the right ways, and I hate that I take a second look. No other woman has made me glance twice in a very long time.

Bailey brought her; of course, that much is obvious. He’s always trying to bring an extra woman. He’s a pig like that.

I notice my pulse and have to consciously keep it steady. Control is everything. I never sleep with anyone at these events, and I never intend to. I don’t show up for that, but a lot of the members do. They see it as a perk; being able to live out some wild, fucked-up fantasy. I don’t care for that, nor do I have the time for it.