Page 10 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

By the time the credits roll, I’ve completely checked out. Tria stretches with a satisfied yawn, clearly unbothered by how dull the whole thing was.

“Well, that was fun,” she says, turning to me. “What’d you think?”

“Riveting,” I deadpan, standing up and brushing popcorn crumbs off my lap.

Xaden smirks again. “Maybe next time, I should pick the movie.”

“Maybe,” I say, already halfway out the door.

“Whoa, whoa, hold it!” Tria says, and I turn to see her practically diving over the back of the couch. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh, my room?” I say, frowning. “You know, to recover from the cinematic masterpiece you just put me through?”

She grabs my wrist and yanks me back toward the couch, and before I can protest, I’m sitting down again.

“Jesus, Tria, what now?”

Xaden’s leaning back in his seat with his arms stretched casually along the top of the couch, watching us with mild amusement. Tria grins like she’s about to drop the world’s biggest bombshell.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this yet,” she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “but since you’re being such a fucking buzzkill, I guess I’ll spill.”

I blink at her, unimpressed. “Oh, great. Another surprise. Can’t wait.”

“Shut up. You’re going to love this.” She turns to Xaden and gestures dramatically. “Tell her.”

Xaden raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself, and looks at me. “Okay, so… I managed to score tickets to that art gallery you’re obsessed with. You know, the one with the exhibit on surrealist crime scenes or whatever.”

I freeze, my brain short-circuiting for a second. “Wait. What?”

“You heard him,” Tria says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “We’re going tomorrow. And you’re welcome, by the way.”

“You’re fucking with me,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Nope,” Xaden says, shrugging. “Got the tickets right here.” He pulls them out of his pocket and waves them in the air.

I snatch one out of his hand, scanning it as if it might burst into flames if I look too hard. But it’s real.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, clutching the ticket. “How did you even—these sold out months ago!”

Xaden shrugs again, infuriatingly nonchalant. “I know a guy.”

“You know a guy ?” I repeat, staring at him like he just told me he moonlights as a secret agent.

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p.’

Tria claps her hands, practically vibrating with excitement. “See? Aren’t you glad you stayed? Now you can stop sulking and actually have something to look forward to!”

I hate how right she is. My chest feels lighter, my pulse quickening with the realization that tomorrow, I’ll finally get to see the exhibit I’ve been drooling over for months.

“This is…” I trail off, looking at the ticket again. “This is insane. I can’t believe you pulled this off.”

Tria flops down next to me. “We’re amazing. You’re lucky to have us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, but I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face.

Xaden stands, stretching lazily. “Well, now that you’re not plotting my death over that movie, I’m going to head out. Big day tomorrow and all.”

“Don’t remind me,” I say.

He smirks and heads toward the door. “Night, ladies.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, Tria nudges me with her elbow. “So? Excited?”

“Understatement.”

“Good,” she says, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Tomorrow’s going to be epic.”

The air smells like polished wood and wealth as we step inside the gallery.

It’s immediately clear this isn’t some casual hangout spot for art lovers.

This place screams exclusive. A sleek, glassy floor stretches out beneath ornate lighting fixtures that look more expensive than my entire apartment.

And the people? Rich. Like, I-own-a-yacht rich.

Women in designer dresses and men in tailored suits sip champagne like they’re not standing in the middle of a room full of creepy-ass crime scene art.

A guy in a crisp black uniform hands us gloves and points to a rack of boot covers near the entrance. “All guests are required to wear these,” he says in a tone that implies he’s not fucking around.

I exchange a look with Tria, who’s already pulling on her gloves. “Fancy,” she whispers.

“Pretend we belong,” I hiss, snapping my gloves on and sliding the boot covers over my sneakers.

“How the hell did Xaden even get these tickets?” I mutter under my breath as we step into the main exhibit.

“Probably blackmailed someone,” Tria whispers back.

“Wouldn’t even surprise me,” I say, shaking my head. It’s weird that he even knew about this place, let alone scored tickets. But honestly? Who cares. I’m here.

The first thing I notice when we walk into the exhibit is how eerie it is. The lighting is dim, with small spotlights illuminating the pieces. Soft, unsettling classical music plays in the background, the kind you’d hear in an old murder mystery movie.

The paintings and photographs on display are even creepier than I imagined. The first piece we stop at is a massive black-and-white photo of a shattered porcelain doll lying in a pool of blood. The caption reads: “The End of Innocence.”

“This one’s fucked up,” Xaden mutters, more to himself than to us.

“No shit,” I say, surprised he’s actually engaging with it. I half-expected him to roll his eyes at the whole thing and call it pretentious.

“It’s not just the doll.” He gestures toward the background of the photo. “Look at the cracks on the wall. It’s like… everything in this picture is falling apart.”

“Huh. I didn’t even notice that,” Tria squints.

We move to the next piece, and it’s even worse.

It’s a painting of a luxurious dining room, except the table is set with human skulls instead of plates.

The artist has painted the scene so vividly that I almost expect the skulls to start talking.

The caption underneath reads: “A Feast for the Guilty.”

“Who the fuck comes up with this shit?” Tria whispers.

“Someone with serious issues.”

As we wander further into the exhibit, the pieces get darker and more disturbing. One photograph shows a pristine, white bathroom splattered with blood. The faucet is running, and there’s a bloody handprint smeared on the mirror. The caption reads: “Reflection of Regret.”

“Jesus,” Tria breathes. “This is… intense.”

“Yeah,” I hush. My heart’s racing, but not in a bad way. There’s something captivating about the way these artists have turned violence and death into something almost beautiful.

We come to a painting that makes me stop in my tracks.

It’s a small, unassuming canvas, but it’s the creepiest thing I’ve seen yet.

A child’s bedroom, with shadows creeping up the walls.

At first glance, it looks normal until you notice the figure standing in the corner.

A man, almost entirely obscured by darkness, except for his glowing eyes.

The caption reads: “The Silent Watcher.”

“Okay, fuck that,” I say, taking a step back.

“Yeah, nope,” Tria agrees, pulling me away. “Why is that so much worse than the other ones?”

“Because it’s too real,” I say, rubbing my arms. “Like, who hasn’t felt like someone’s watching them in the dark?”

Tria shivers dramatically, and we both laugh nervously, but the image sticks in my mind.

As Tria and Xaden move on to the next piece, I linger for a moment, and let my eyes scan the room.

My feet move on their own, pulling me toward the painting in the far corner.

It’s larger than I thought, framed in dark, weathered wood that seems to swallow the light around it.

The plaque beneath it reads: “At the Edge.”

The painting shows a girl sitting at the very edge of a jagged cliff, her back to the viewer.

Her white dress billows around her, flowing like it’s caught in some invisible breeze.

The fabric is impossibly delicate, almost glowing against the harsh backdrop of the cliff’s rocky surface.

But the longer I stare, the more I notice the darkness creeping up the hem of her dress.

It’s subtle at first, like shadows playing tricks on my eyes. The black tendrils climb the fabric in uneven streaks, stretching higher and higher toward her shoulders. It’s not just shadows; it’s alive somehow, curling and twisting like smoke or ink bleeding into water.

The background is stormy. The sky is smeared with angry streaks of deep gray and violet, as if the heavens themselves are tearing apart.

Below the girl, the abyss stretches endlessly, swallowing everything in a void so black it’s almost dizzying to look at.

The edge of the cliff she’s perched on is sharp and uneven with broken stone and brittle weeds that look like they’d crumble if she so much as shifted her weight.

But she doesn’t. She’s completely still. One hand rests loosely on her knee and the other is dangling over the edge like she’s tempting gravity to take her. Her hair spills down her back in soft waves, the same pristine white as her dress, blending almost seamlessly into the fabric.

The eerie part, though, is the faint reflection in the abyss below her. It’s not her reflection, at least, not exactly. The figure in the darkness doesn’t sit still. Its head tilts, its arm shifts ever so slightly, and though its face is blurred and indistinct, it feels like it’s watching.

The longer I look, the more the entire painting feels wrong. It’s too still and too alive all at once. The way the darkness clings to her dress reminds me of something between possession and decay.

I step closer to the painting, scanning the bottom corner where the artist’s name should be, but there’s nothing.

I lean in further, almost pressing my nose to the glass, and that’s when I see faint, almost imperceptible words stitched into the hem of her dress.

They’re so faint I can barely make them out, but they’re there.

I narrow my eyes to get a closer look. The words aren’t in English—or at least, not in any language I recognize.

“That one’s beautiful, isn’t it?”