Page 67 of Beautiful Venom
Then he attachesa ticket for a seat at the very front. I’ve never sat at the front at any game, let alone for an extremely sought-after team like the Vipers.
Not that I will follow his order and go there just because he told me to.
* * *
So I came anyway.
Doesn’t matter how much I despise Kane’s attitude on a personal level. I still need him to trust me and allow me to get closer.
I even bought his jersey from the merch store outside and gave myself a major eye roll.
Tonight’s game is against the Blackhawks, one of the fiercest teams in the league and Michigan’s reigning champion.
Vipers Arena is packed full of people gaping at witnessing two titans going at each other. They buzz with uncontained excitement every time there’s contact.
The rink pulses with life, the roar of the crowd vibrating in the air like an electric hum, which slips into my bones.
The cold air bites at my skin, even through layers of clothes. Like everyone else, my attention is glued to the game. The sharp staccato of skates slicing the ice, the thud of bodies crashing together—it all melds into a chaotic symphony of power and violence.
However, the game isn’t really on my radar.
I’m more focused on the man who commands the ice like a warrior.
Kane.
And I realize the way he plays is an accurate representation of his personality. He moves like a predator, calculating every motion with deadly precision. His tall frame cuts through the opposing players, his ice-blue eyes never leaving the puck.
There’s something about the way he plays, his presence magnetic, impossible to ignore. His skates scraping against the ice is like a knife through my senses. The cold sharpness of his movements slices through the air, making my pulse quicken.
The puck glides across the ice, and Kane seizes it. His stick connects with the puck in a single, fluid motion that makes the crowd go wild. Even I find myself leaning forward in my seat. Every muscle in his body seems attuned to the game, the way he owns the ice, the control he wields—it’s intoxicating.
No. Terrifying.
There’s a calmness to him, an authoritativeness that contrasts with the chaos of the game. Every time he moves, subtle power peeks from beneath the surface. He finally shoots, and it’s a perfect strike, the puck slamming into the net with a sharp crack that sends the crowd into a frenzy.
Kane doesn’t react. His face remains unreadable, cold, as he skates back to center ice, not acknowledging the cheers.
I think I see him glancing in my direction, but it’s fleeting and probably a figment of my imagination.
“We meet again, Dahlia.”
The low, disturbingly malicious voice sets my nerves on edge. I’ve been so focused on Kane, I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings, so I didn’t notice when a demon personified approached me.
“What are you doing here, Marcus?” I speak over the crowd’s chaos.
He sits beside me when I swear the seat was occupied by an older lady not ten minutes ago. I consider moving to another seat, but the arena is packed full of people.
“Is that any way to greet me, sweetheart?”
“I’m not your sweetheart,” I grit out from between clenched teeth.
He smiles, but it’s predatory at best.
Marcus Osborn is an unsettling presence, a force of chaotic energy barely contained within his tall, lean frame. His angular face is sharp, with high cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass, but it’s his eyes that reveal the depth of his brutality. His dark, nearly black eyes are cold and hollow, yet there’s a flicker of wildness within them, like a storm that’s constantly brewing.
A thin scar slices across his right eyebrow, a constant reminder of the violence he both endures and inflicts. His lips, often set in a cruel smirk, hint at his enjoyment of the pain he causes and the thrill he gets from pushing others to their limits.
Like he once did to me.
