Page 68 of Beautiful Venom
“Is that why you’re wearing Davenport’s shirt? You sure know how to climb the ranks.”
“What I do with my life is none of your business.”
“I know. I’m just disappointed in your life choices.”
“Better than the life choices you had in mind for me.”
He smiles but says nothing.
I notice angry purple bruises on his knuckles. Though not as bulky as Jude, Marcus has a wiry, muscular build, and he’s no stranger to physical confrontations, his preferred method of communication often being fists—or worse.
He’s just bad news all around.
I trace circles on my thumb. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching the game. Like you.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. The Vipers and the Blackhawks are our rivals, remember? Or did you forget where you came from once you fraternized with the posh rich boys?”
I open my mouth to say something when the boards in front of me rattle with a violent impact. My eyes widen as they clash with Kane’s. He just shoved a Blackhawks player so harshly, I’m surprised the boards didn’t splinter to pieces.
He holds my gaze for a brief moment. Chilly, expressionless—but something flickers there, something dark and intense that renders me motionless.
The referee doesn’t call a penalty, and the Vipers snatch the puck back. Kane skates to the offense, resuming the fast-paced game.
“Hmm.” Marcus scratches his chin as he watches me. “Interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Davenport doesn’t check violently. He’s usually extremely sharp and intervenes in a clean way. I must say, I prefer this version of him.”
I frown, but before I can consider Marcus’s words, he waves at the rink and mouths something I’m not able to read in time.
When I follow his field of vision, I spot Preston glaring back for a fraction of a second before he skates with the puck.
Preston is a shadow on the ice. He doesn’t crash or shove, but his presence is still felt. There’s a smoothness to his movements, an effortless grace as he navigates the rink, weaving through players with ease. He’s not loud or aggressive, but his style is lethal in its precision. Every pass and every play is strategic, as if he’s thinking five steps ahead of everyone else.
While Jude crashes into the opposing players with a force that sends bodies flying into the boards, Preston avoids that at all costs.
“Hey, Marcus?”
“Hmm?” he says without taking his calculative gaze from the game.
“Do you know Preston?”
He tilts his head in my direction with a faint pull at the edge of his lips. “Why? He said he knows me?”
“No. But he kind of dislikes me since he found out we were together at some point.”
A slow, malicious grin stretches his mouth. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. What have you done?”
“Moi? Nothing.”
“You want me to believe he dislikes you for no reason?”
