Ash's POV
Seraphina Viper didn't dismiss me.
She didn't tell me I was excused, or give me orders, or even turn her back.
She just walked away.
Like I didn't matter.
Like I hadn't just been summoned like a damn pet to her den.
I sat there a beat longer, fists clenched under the table, her scent still lingering in the air. Something between blood roses and burnt promises. The kind of scent you remember even when you're running miles from the memory.
I hated her.
Hated how effortlessly she controlled a room.
Hated how calm she looked with power dripping from her fingertips like wine.
And most of all, I hated how badly I wanted to pull her apart just to see if anything inside her ever bled.
I stood, jaw tight, and walked out without a word.
But my steps were slower now.
Measured.
Because no matter how many bodies I'd walked over to get here, Seraphina wasn't just another target.
She was a temptation I couldn't afford.
And the worst part?
She knew it.
Back in the recruit wing, the air was thicker.
Word traveled fast around the Viper nest.
They'd seen me go in.
And come out alive.
Now they were watching. Gauging.
Which meant I had to move fast.
Lay low. Blend in.
Kill the curiosity before it turned into suspicion.
I was halfway to my dorm when someone stepped into my path.
A guy—tall, wiry, face like a rat in training. He wore a sleeveless tank to show off tattoos that were probably fake, or earned through cheap favors.
"You think you're special because the princess called you in?" he said, grinning like a jackal. "That's cute."
I gave him a look.
Bored. Flat.
"I think you should move."
He didn't.
"Or what?"
I didn't answer.
I punched him.
Hard.
His nose exploded with a satisfying crunch. He staggered back, blood already streaming down his mouth.
Two of his buddies lunged.
Mistake.
I dropped the first with a sweep to the knees and elbowed the second in the throat before he could throw a punch.
By the time the third blinked, I had a knife to his neck.
Training blade. Blunt. But he didn't know that.
"I don't like being watched," I said, calm as winter.
He nodded, eyes wide.
I let him go.
The hallway fell silent again.
I didn't wait for applause.
I walked away like it didn't matter.
But inside?
I was alive.
The way I hadn't felt since my sister died.
This place may be full of snakes—but so was I.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
My room was dark. The fan hummed above. The sheets smelled like bleach and fear.
But I was restless.
I kept thinking about Seraphina.
The way she looked at me like she could already smell the lies on my skin.
The way her voice slid under mine like a blade disguised as silk.
And that smile.
God, that fucking smile.
Like she knew exactly how much I hated her—and didn't give a damn.
But what gnawed at me more?
Was how part of me wanted her to look again.
To push harder.
To see what would happen if the tension between us ever snapped.
Would we kiss?
Or kill?
Maybe both.
The next morning, we were called to weapons training.
The Vipers didn't waste time. Either you proved your worth or you became fertilizer for the syndicate's garden.
I threw on my gear, boots still stiff with dried blood, and made it to the lower floor by 0600 hours sharp.
The room was a concrete box with bullet holes for decoration. Racks of weapons lined the wall—knives, handguns, SMGs, even a pair of spiked batons. This wasn't training.
It was selection.
And guess who walked in like she'd just descended from her own private throne?
Seraphina.
Of course.
She wore black again—tight combat pants, tucked-in shirt, gun holstered at her thigh. Her hair was pulled back this time, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.
She looked like a painting you wanted to ruin.
Beautiful. And asking for it.
She strode to the center of the room without looking at anyone.
"Today, you'll be partnered for reflex drills," she announced. "Reaction speed, precision, pain tolerance."
Her eyes scanned the group.
Landed on me.
"Vega," she said, voice cold and clear. "With me."
The room froze.
You could hear a pin drop.
Or a heart stop.
Some idiot behind me choked on his spit.
My blood burned—but not with fear.
With fury.
She was playing a game.
And I was walking into it, step by step.
"Let's dance," I muttered.
I followed her to the mat.
She faced me with that same smug serenity.
"This isn't personal," she said.
"No," I agreed. "But it will be painful."
"Good."
She struck first.
I blocked.
Barely.
Her movements were sharp, disciplined, with a kind of vicious grace that screamed years of training.
She moved like a fighter—but with the timing of a predator.
I retaliated with a punch, fast and low.
She dodged. Twisted.
Her hand snaked behind my neck, pulled me down, and her knee nearly connected with my gut before I twisted free.
We circled.
Breathing hard. Close.
Too close.
I saw it in her eyes.
Not rage.
Not victory.
But interest.
Like she wasn't just testing my skill—but tasting my limits.
And god help me—I was doing the same.
Our fists collided again.
Blocked.
She spun, hit my ribs.
I grabbed her wrist.
We locked, chest to chest, hands tangled like we didn't know whether to fight or kiss.
"You're sloppy," she hissed.
"You're predictable," I shot back.
Her eyes narrowed.
"You think you scare me?"
"No. I think I confuse you."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she slammed her forehead into mine.
Pain exploded across my temple—but I didn't fall.
I grinned through the blood in my mouth.
She blinked.
Just for a second.
And in that second, I swept her legs from under her and pinned her to the mat.
My face hovered inches from hers.
Breaths ragged. Muscles trembling.
Her lips parted—barely.
Her fingers twitched.
I could kill her.
Or kiss her.
And I hated how badly my body didn't care which.
"Training complete," the instructor barked.
I rolled off.
Stood.
Didn't look at her.
But I felt her watching me.
Later, in the locker room, my ribs still throbbed from the hit.
I yanked off my shirt, stared at the red mark blooming like a storm cloud on my side.
I didn't mind.
Pain meant I was doing something right.
The door creaked.
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
"I thought rich girls had better manners," I said.
Seraphina's voice answered smoothly. "I don't do manners. I do results."
I faced her.
She leaned against the locker across from me, arms folded, eyes flickering to the bruise on my side.
"Next time, I won't hold back," she said.
"You didn't."
She smirked. "You're fast."
"You're not bad yourself. For someone who fights in diamonds."
That smirk deepened. "You noticed?"
"Hard not to. You sparkle when you throw elbows."
She pushed off the locker and stepped closer.
My pulse kicked.
Stupid pulse.
"Why are you really here, Ash Vega?" she asked, quieter now.
I gave her my best dead-eyed stare. "To win."
"To survive?"
"To kill, if necessary."
"And me?"
I hesitated.
Then leaned in.
"You're just another obstacle."
Her eyes dropped to my mouth for a half-second.
Then lifted.
"You say that like you mean it."
"I do."
We stood there, tension twisting tighter with every heartbeat.
Then she leaned close—too close.
Her lips brushed my ear.
"I wonder which of us will break first."
Then she left.
And I let her.
But deep down?
I wasn't sure I hadn't already started cracking.