The ice cracked beneath skates outside, but inside the Vipers’ private lounge, the cold came from something far more dangerous.

You leaned against the locker, all relaxed arrogance and deceptive charm, watching her pace the room like a cornered animal. Dahlia Thorne. Fire in silk. Fury in disguise. She thought she was the one hunting.

She didn’t realize she’d already been caught.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally, her arms crossed, the sharp edge of suspicion cutting through every word.

You tilted your head, smile slow, eyes unreadable.

She stiffened, caught.

Your fingers tapped against your arm—measured, controlled, lethal. You took a step toward her.

Dahlia didn’t move, but you saw it—the way her breath caught, the way her fingers twitched. She’d come to tear apart a secret society. To use you. To manipulate her way into the truth.

Instead, she was standing in front of the one viper who didn’t need a mask.

She should’ve run. Should’ve never stepped foot into this den.

But it was too late.

Now she was wrapped in the coils of something colder, hungrier.

You smiled.

Turning your back—

And just like that, the door clicked shut behind you.