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VIVIENNE pov.

The only thing better than closing a fifty‑million‑dollar deal is fucking out the tension right before you sign your name in blood. Marcus had me bent over the cold steel desk, wrists pinned behind my back, his grip bruising, his cock slamming into me with enough force to make the entire desk shudder under us. Each brutal thrust punched curses and breathless laughter out of me, my dress shoved up around my waist, slick warmth soaking down my thighs, sweat sliding slow and sinful down my spine.

He fucked like he had something to kill, maybe me or whatever demons crawled inside him but I welcomed it. That’s my language. Pain, power and pleasure tangled so tightly you can't tell who’s winning.

I arched, meeting every savage thrust, glancing at the clock on my desk between moans. “We… should leave soon,” I managed, voice shaking.

Marcus didn’t care. He grunted, pulled out, flipped me over like I weighed nothing, and the next second I was lifted clean off the floor. I grabbed his neck on instinct, nails scraping skin as he pinned me against the wall and drove into me again, harder, and deeper, ripping a loud, unfiltered cuss from my throat.

“Idiot!”

“You love me,” he groaned, eyes darkening, voice ruined, and I rolled my eyes at the ceiling as he hammered up into me.

He would keep going until sunrise if I let him, no doubt so I slid my hand down, fingers finding the hilt of the dagger hidden in my dress. In one smooth motion I brought the blade to his throat.

His cock twitched violently inside me.

Of course it did.

“Pull. Out,” I ordered, tightening around him just to make the command sting more.

He only smirked, breath ragged, hips a brutal rhythm against mine. “Go on,” he rasped, pushing harder, “not the first time I’ve fucked you in blood.”

His pulse throbbed under my blade and my grin deepened as I dragged the blade higher, cold metal kissing his pulse, my breath harsh and hot against his ear, “I said pull out, Marcus. Don’t make me ruin your pretty neck before the deal even starts.”

He only groaned, deep, filthy, hungry and slammed into me harder, the impact cracking the plaster behind my back. Typical. He never listened unless my dagger started carving.

I let the edge bite in a little and blood beaded instantly, his cock jerked violently inside me.

Pathetic.

“Fuck, Viv...” he choked out, voice breaking, hips jerking into mine like he was losing control.

“Don’t you dare cum in me,” I snapped, tightening my fist in his hair and yanking his head back, forcing him to meet my eyes, “I have a fifty‑million‑dollar empire to run and you are not part of my breeding stock.”

My dagger drew more blood and his cock twitched violently again and he smirked causing me to scoff, “You seriously need therapy if this is what gets you going.”

He half-laughed, half-choked. “You are my therapy.”

I scoffed, “I’m your boss, not your emotional support demon.”

“Same thing.”

“Marcus...” I pushed the blade in a hair deeper, “I said pull out.”

That finally broke him. With a guttural curse, he slammed his hips forward one last time, pulled out with a shiver, and let his forehead drop to my shoulder, breath uneven.

I shoved him off me instantly, adjusting my dress, wiping his blood off the dagger with two fingers, then licking them clean just to watch his pupils dilate.

He stared like he’d die happy if I stepped on his throat.

“Get your shit together,” I muttered, sliding the dagger back into its sheath under my dress. “We’ve got a fifty-million-dollar deal in a few hours, and I refuse to walk in smelling like your neediness.”

“I make you needy too,” he shot back with a smug smirk, chest rising, hands shaking as he pulled himself together.

I turned so fast he flinched, caught off guard by how fast the switch flipped. “Marcus,” I said, sugar-sweet and ice-cold, “if I ever get needy, it won’t be because of you. It’ll be because I’m bored enough to use you like a stress ball.”

His smile cracked. There it was, the truth slicing through his fantasy. Good. I needed that hope broken.

He tried again, voice low, soft, trying to crawl back under my skin, “Can’t we be more than this? We can make it work out, you...”

“ENOUGH, MARCUS!” The word snapped out, sharp, his head dropped instantly, eyes on the floor. “You are my second-in-command, not my distraction. I have an empire left by my father to build, and I will not have you confusing fucking with loyalty. Keep your emotions in check and don’t you dare bring it up again.”

He clenched his jaw, nodded once. “Yes, Boss.”

I grabbed my jacket, holsters cold against my ribs, hair twisted up, my face already shifting into that unreadable expression I wore for the world. “Brief the team,” I ordered, sliding on my gloves, “five minutes and we’re out the door.”

He slipped out with a muttered apology, the door swinging shut behind him. I stood alone in the home office, letting silence settle over the carnage we’d just made of the place, files scattered, desk marked, the smell of sex and blood still sharp in the air.

My empire first and always.

Twelve years I spent clawing my way to the top. Vivienne Moreau, known by everyone as the Viper, the bitch who built an underworld dynasty out of gunpowder, fear, and broken men. Tonight was everything, Volkov Bratva, fifty million dollars on the table, the deal that would cement my place as the one no one dared cross. After my father left this world, I turned everything he gave me into a weapon, sharpened every edge until the city bled for me.

There’s no room for softness, not here. Not in this world.

I double-checked my holsters, made sure every blade was in place, took a last look at my reflection, brown eyes flat, unreadable, that faint hint of a smirk always ready for war.

Down the hall, guards snapped to attention the second I entered, guns slung low, eyes averted. They knew better than to meet my gaze unless invited. I passed Marcus, who’d already shifted back into soldier mode, phone to his ear barking orders, cold and efficient, exactly how I needed him.

We swept through the private elevator, descended into the basement where my armored car waited, black and gleaming under the harsh lights. The doors swung open, Marcus and I sliding in opposite sides, the rest of the convoy ready behind us.

The city blurred past the tinted glass as we tore through the streets, the kind of speed that made most people sweat but barely made me blink. I stared out the window, cataloguing every threat, every alley, every possible ambush because tonight couldn’t go wrong. Not when this deal was the final nail in my rivals’ coffins.

Marcus stayed quiet this time. Smart. I watched his reflection, jaw locked, fingers tapping his knee, probably desperate to say something but knowing I’d cut him down if he did.

No one except Marcus knew the details of this deal. Ten years he’d served under me, sometimes sharing my bed, but nothing passed physical pleasure. He was loyal, useful, even dangerous when pointed at the right target, but tonight he was just another asset. I thought he understood his place in my world.

Maybe he did and I trust only him.

But trust was a currency more valuable than money in the underworld. One slip, one stray emotion, and everything crumbled. I built this empire on blood, silence, and the knowledge that everyone was replaceable even the ones who called me lover in the dark.

We hit the city limits and the landscape changed, factories and neon bleeding into wasteland. The convoy roared down cracked asphalt, engines purring and security was airtight. Snipers on the roofs, drones circling overhead, every guard in black suits and silenced steel tucked under their coats. The warehouse came into view, five stories of converted concrete and corruption, one of my favorite kinds of sanctuaries, ugly on the outside, but lethal on the inside.

As we slowed to a stop, Marcus looked at me, hope flickering, one last shot at softness but I didn’t even turn so he killed the engine announcing, “We’re live.”

I adjusted my jacket, felt the weight of the twin Glocks under each arm. “Move.”

Inside, the air was thick, oil, sweat, gunmetal, and the tang of fear. My kind of perfume, the place hummed with power lines and low murmurs, every man on payroll standing sharp. Volkov’s crew waited near the cargo crates, their insignia gleaming red under the floodlights.

I walked in first, heels echoing off the concrete, Marcus a step behind. Heads turned and backed down just as fast.

The Viper had arrived.

I didn’t wait for pleasantries. “Show me the goods,” I said.

A Bratva soldier cracked open a crate. Rows of assault rifles gleamed inside, serials shaved off clean, fresh from the ports. I bent closer, breathing in the faint scent of oil and salt, eyes narrowing. Everything looked perfect. Too perfect.

Marcus shifted beside me, hands behind his back, posture a soldier’s calm. “Checks out,” he said.

“Don’t think for me,” I murmured, scanning the next crate myself. My enhanced senses did the rest, the smell of metal, grease, adrenaline, lies. Every sound in the warehouse was a heartbeat, every flicker of motion a possible betrayal.

Twelve years of running the Eastern underworld had taught me that paranoia wasn’t weakness, it was survival.

I counted each rifle, noted the missing serial chips, the faint smudge of new paint. “It’s clean,” I said finally. “Load it.”

Marcus signaled my men and they moved like clockwork.

Everything should’ve felt right but it didn’t.

My wolf stirred under my skin, restless, and uneasy. The scent hit me a split second too late, it was not gun oil, not sweat but something chemical, bitter, and wrong.

Danger.

I straightened, heart kicking hard once but enough to echo in my skull. My eyes swept the catwalks, the stacked crates, every shadow behind the floodlights. Something in the air had shifted, it was suddenly too quiet, too still, like the building itself was holding its breath.

Ivy snarled inside me, “Something’s wrong, Vee...wrong.”

Her teeth scraped against my skull, restless, pacing, and clearly agitated.

“I know.” My voice was sharp and as I made to turn, ready to signal Marcus, “Marcus...”

A sharp sting sliced into the side of my neck and it was not a punch, a sting or even a fucking blade. 

“Che cazzo...?”

I whipped around, hand flying for my dagger, but my fingers wouldn’t fucking close. The world lurched, colors smearing, and the concrete floor rising up in weird ways.

And my body screams it before anything...wolfbane.

The kind mixed in backroom labs by men with no souls.

“Ivy..shift...shift now...”

But she howled, a sound so violent it ripped tears from my eyes. My muscles locked, fire flooded my veins, my wolf slamming uselessly against the cage of poison.

“No… no, no… how the fuck.. ”

I hit the ground hard, knees cracking against concrete and my lungs seized, my vision tunneling, the warehouse spinning and my whole body lit up in pain

Wolf’s bane had been injected under my skin and it's a fucking potent one.

Shit! Someone just signed their own fucking death warrant.