Page 37 of Sweet Touch of Venom

I pull the duffel bag strap further onto my shoulder. Suddenly, it’s feeling heavier than I would like.

“It was an easy choice. I am confident that I could’ve done this on my own, but why not just kill two birds with one stone?” I give a small, tight grin.

Ronan chuckles, deep and silky. He steps forward. His chest coming so close to my face I could breathe in his scent, and the hairs on my neck stand. The combined fragrance of gunpowder and smoke flows off him strongly, invading my nose. I craned my neck to look up at him, not backing down.

“You won’t get away with killing me here. You’ll be dead in under two minutes.” His hand raises, wrapping around the strap on my shoulder, digging the denim I’m wearing into my skin. I wince and squeeze my lips as the fabric stings my shoulder like a rug burn.

I hood my eyes. “We’ll see about that,” I whisper. All night, I’ve thought long and hard about killing him once I arrived. Butthe answers I seek are my focus. Although, it’s nice to let himthinkI want to kill him.

His smile only deepens, presenting his finger-deep dimples. It should freak me out because it’s a smile that reeks of death rather than angelic dust, but I happen to love the face ofla mortso much more.

Of course, not on him.

He pulls the strap down from my shoulder, and I don’t stop him. With his eyes still piercing mine, he raises the bag like it’s made of plastic and brings it to his side. “Take this to her room, please.”

Out of nowhere, a man appears, grabbing the bag from Ronan and making his way toward the grand steps.

“Time for your tour.” He moves to the side, still observing me, and I can admit I’m more uncomfortable than I let on.

“Lead the way.” I put my clammy palms into the pockets of my jean jacket to help keep the moisture to a minimum as he turns away and walks off.

Chapter 14

Venom

Ronan strolls ahead of me, and I finally inhale a deep breath, shaking my head, the lightheadedness coming full force. Similar to blowing your breath into a balloon and now your brain is suffering the consequences.

He leads me down a brown rustic hallway, a burgundy carpet stretches down the full hall. Women in business attire, some with laboratory equipment, stroll by; the men are in combat uniforms, and the students dressed in their Oxford wear walk past, eyeing me with surprise. Doors line both sides of the hall. He stops at the first threshold.

“This here is the Tenebra wing. We hold most classes here to teach skills and about survival. We?—”

I blink, raising my hand to stop him, so I can make room to comprehend. “Okay, what is this place?” I thought I was coming to a compound. Not a damn school.

“This is an academy.”

“Well, yes, that much I can see. I mean,whatis this place for?”

“It’s a place for learning to fight, kill, survive.” He moves to the side, letting some people into the room. “It’s not an ordinarycurriculum. They learn the triggers in the body, ways to kill and self-defend. The science behind it all.” Ronan shifts to the side, placing his hand on the lower part of my back.

I straighten my spine at his touch. Normally, I would elbow him off, but I’d rather not make a scene in front of his students. He doesn’t notice—I think. And leads me in the opposite direction. I look over my shoulder, wondering why he didn’t show me the other rooms. I open my mouth to speak.

“I won’t bore you with the simple stuff. This seems more like your speed.” On the other side, under the arch, is less rustic and academic; the walls turn wolf gray and the decor is pure black. My heart picks up a beat and my eyes gleam. I keep my face void of emotions, hiding my intrigue.

Muffled noises, and grunts, fill the expanse of the room. He leads me to an open area with a boxing ring in the middle. The instant scent of sweat and musky balls hits my nose, and the thick mugginess lies on me. A weight rack lines the wall, and boxing gloves rest on wall mounts. Shelves with hand wraps, focus mitts, kick pads, and other training equipment hang throughout the room. Two men are sparing each other—and it’s not friendly, either. Or maybe they are friends.

I’ve constantly seen this, men bludgeoning themselves to death. I look further into the room.

Wait, that’s the red-haired guy.He throws a jab at his sparring partner—who is not any smaller than him—then he uppercuts him. Sweat and pink spit spray up in the air. His opponent falls, but the ginger-haired man is punching his fists together, bouncing on the balls of his feet. My eyes narrow in on the man attempting to grasp for his life, and he stands up. He struggles but rises to his feet. I nod to myself with a small grin coming onto my face.

The nerves on the back of my neck quiver, and I turn my head to see Ronan watching me. I roll my eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh. “What?”

“Do you like boxing?” He nods to the men in the ring.

I shrug lightly. “Not exactly.” He continues staring at me, waiting for me to finish, I suppose. “I enjoy seeing someone fight despite being broken and brittle, when they can’t even fathom the thought of lifting a finger. So, when you manage to stand back up on your own two feet and still conquer. It’s a sight to see.” That’s the one thing I was taught. Never back down and never give up. And I don't understand why I even shared that with Ronan, of all people.

I clear my throat a troubled twist lurking at my stomach. I shift on my heel, sauntering around him. “Can we finish?”

I follow him to the next area, which is holding a gun wielding session. The man in charge stands with his arms crossed at the front of the room while the students, wearing burnt green tank tops and dark brown combat pants, are aiming their guns down range while kneeling. Then they turn, roll on their backs into a standing position—all while holding and aiming their guns.

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