Page 12 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER SIX

THE MONSTER

T he prison doors open with a metallic groan that’s loud as fuck and grates on my nerves. I step through and the guard behind me is barking some bullshit about keeping my head down.

The intake process is slow and boring as hell. They strip me down, search me, make me shower under some shitty-ass lukewarm water that smells like rust. I stand there, letting it hit me.

The guards are all stiff and uptight, trying to look hard as they bark orders. But I see it in their eyes. The flicker of recognition. They know me. They know who I am. And it scares the shit out of them.

Once I’m shoved into the baggy-ass jumpsuit they give me, they push me straight into the yard. The gate slams shut behind me with a metallic clang that slices through the noise. I step forward, letting the scene sink in.

As I move deeper, the atmosphere curdles. Conversations stall. Words hang unfinished. Heads turn. Every set of eyes locks onto me, tracking my steps like I’m not a person, but a warning.

I smirk. Let them stare. Let them feel it.

As I keep walking, I catch the murmur of voices threading through the silence.

“That’s him.”

“The kid who—”

“No way.”

“Stay the fuck out of his way.”

It’s almost too easy. I don’t bother looking at anyone, don’t bother acknowledging the stares. Let them talk. Let them wonder. I keep walking like I own the place because, in a way, I do.

“Hey, kid.”

I glance over. The guy calling out to me is sitting on a bench.

He’s massive and built like a tank. His muscles look like they’ve been carved out of stone, and his silver blonde hair glints under the sun, sharp against his dark eyes.

He looks older, but not old enough to be frail.

Just old enough to make me wonder how many skulls he’s cracked open in his lifetime.

“You talking to me?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer. He’s got a presence, I’ll give him that. But I’ve seen worse. Done worse. “You’re new.”

“Thanks for noticing.” I flash him a cocky smile, but he doesn’t react.

“Name’s Terry,” he says, crossing his arms over his massive chest. His biceps are so thick they could probably crush a watermelon.

“Zane.”

“I know.” There’s a glint in his eye that tells me he’s read all the headlines. “You’re famous.”

“Lucky me.”

“You don’t scare easy.”

“Why the fuck would I?”

Terry’s grin widens. “I like you, kid. You’ve got the kind of attitude that gets people killed around here.”

“Good thing I’m impossible to kill.”

The conversation goes on like that. Over the next few weeks, Terry and I fall into some kind of rhythm. He’s always there; he watches, he waits, but he never oversteps.

One afternoon, we’re sitting on a bench in the yard. Terry’s leaning back with his arms stretched over the backrest, while I’m flipping a playing card between my fingers.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “what landed you in here?”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, you don’t already know? Thought you were my biggest fan.”

“I know the headlines,” he says. “But I want to hear it from you. Do you regret it?”

“Regret’s for people who don’t finish what they start.”

“ You remind me of a blade. You’re sharp as hell.

But a blade that isn’t tempered? It shatters the first time it hits something harder than itself.

That’s what I see in you. You’ve got the edge, but you don’t know how to wield it yet.

Strength isn’t just about cutting through the fight , it’s about lasting through it.

Sharpen yourself, kid. Learn where to strike, and when to wait.

Or someone in here is going to shatter you before you even see it coming. ”

“Fuck, you’re a sight.”

My fist tightens in her hair, forcing her head back until I know the strain reaches her neck.

Her lips part with a sharp intake of breath, spit dripping freely from the corners of her mouth and streaking down her chest. I glance at her, trying to remember her name.

Tasha? Tara? Something with a T. It doesn’t matter.

The sight of it pooling between her tits makes my cock twitch.

I drag my thumb across her cheek, collecting the wetness smeared there before shoving it between her lips. “Open wider, baby. Let me see how far you can go.”

She obeys instantly, dropping her jaw to let my thumb slide deeper. I chuckle as I press down hard enough to make her gag.

Her throat tightens, and her hands scramble at my thighs as if she thinks that’ll make me ease up. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes me grip her hair even harder, forcing her head back further until she has no choice but to stay completely still.

“You know,” I murmur as I tilt her head further, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.

“If I just yanked your head to the right, just one good tug, there’s a bone in here that could snap.

” I trail my fingers lightly over the column of her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse against my skin.

“You’d lose control of half your body. Maybe forever. ”

Her breath hitches, and I can feel the tension coil in her as she tries to shift, to pull away even the slightest bit. That tiny movement makes my grin widen.

“Ah, ah,” I warn, yanking her hair so hard she gasps. “Don’t fucking move.”

Her eyes go wide and glassy with panic as she freezes in place. The fear is almost palpable, and I soak it in, letting it wash over me like a goddamn drug.

“Bet you thought you could play the slut for me, get on your knees, and I’d be nice. But I’m not nice, sweetheart. I don’t give a fuck about your limits or what you think you can handle.”

Her tears finally spill over, tracking down her flushed cheeks, and I wipe one away with my thumb before shoving it between her lips.

Women are harder to break. It’s a truth I’ve learned countless times, watching them endure far more than anyone gives them credit for.

Their strength isn’t just in their bodies, though that, too, is underestimated.

It’s in their minds, in the way they can dig deep and hold onto something unyielding even when the world around them is tearing at the seams. They’ll take pain, humiliation, and pressure in ways that make men crumble.

Men break because they’re too proud, too quick to snap when something threatens their ego.

Women? They bend, they adapt, and they survive.

It’s never their bodies that betray them first. No, it’s their heads.

That’s where the cracks start. Push them far enough, and they’ll beg, but even then, it’s calculated.

Most people don’t realize that. The begging, the tears, they’re a defense mechanism, a way to diffuse the power dynamic long enough to figure out their next move.

I can’t help but admire that about them.

There’s a beauty in their resistance, the quiet strength they bury beneath their softness.

It’s deceptive, almost cruel in the way it lures you into underestimating them.

And when you think you’ve won, think you’ve broken them—they’ll look at you with those eyes, and you’ll realize you were never in control at all.

I let my grip on her hair loosen slightly, dragging my gaze over her as she struggles to hold herself together.

The fear in her eyes is real, but the desperation?

It reeks of weakness. Not the kind that hides strength, but the kind that’s empty, rehearsed.

And that’s what I can’t stand. Not her fear. Not her submission. Just the lie of it.

Her breath starts to even out, the exaggerated gasps start fading as she adjusts herself. When she finally settles, I chuckle. “Good girl.”

The words feel heavy on my tongue, foreign in a way that doesn’t belong to her.

I glance down at her face again, and it begins to blur. Her features seem to fade, like they’re being smudged out of existence. Her cheeks, her lips, her eyes, it all starts to swirl together, dissolving into nothing but ash and shadows.

I blink, but it doesn’t stop. My pulse quickens, a faint unease creeping up my spine as I stare at the blank, featureless mask where her face should be.

“What the fuck...”

The room feels too quiet now and I clench my jaw, forcing myself to focus. This isn’t real. It’s just my head fucking with me. It’s nothing.

“Get out,” I snap.

She flinches, but she doesn’t move.

“Are you deaf?” I bark. “I said, get the fuck out.”

She hesitates, and I lunge forward, gripping her arm and yanking her upright. She stumbles, and for a moment I think she might go down.

“Go,” I hiss, shoving her toward the door. “Before I change my mind.”

I watch her go. The blank space where her face should be is still burned into my vision. My cock is still hard, but the desire is gone, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that leaves me cold.

I need air.

I stalk through the halls, ignoring the stares of the other inmates. They part for me like the Red Sea. Smart choice. The heat rolling off me is a warning no one here is stupid enough to ignore.

I make my way to the far corner, where the guards can’t see much and no one bothers to pretend they’re not breaking rules.

Getting weed in here isn’t hard. Nothing is, really, if you know how to work the system. A cigarette here, a favor there, it’s all transactional. I don’t even have to ask; one of the guys nods when he sees me coming, already pulling a tightly rolled joint from his pocket.

I toss him a look that says “don’t fucking talk to me” as I take it, slipping it between my lips and lighting it up with the cheap-ass prison-issued lighter. The first inhale burns but I welcome it.

Years in this place, and this is the first time I’ve turned to a substance to calm myself. I lean against the fence, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that drifts up into the sky, carrying pieces of my frustration with it. My body relaxes almost instantly.

But my mind? My mind doesn’t get the fucking memo.

Faith Collins.