Page 17 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

“This isn’t a college help desk,” he says flatly, his eyes already flicking back to his monitor. “No public access.”

“This could literally determine whether or not I lose my semester—”

“Ma’am, I said no.”

I step forward before I can stop myself. “Please. It’s a one-page fax. You can watch me do it. Hell, you can send it.”

He sighs, louder this time, clearly trying to end the conversation. “You need a client ID or an appointment to be here. I don’t make the rules.”

I’m two seconds from losing my shit when I hear a voice behind me.

“Faith?”

I turn and spot Trevor. He looks just as surprised as I feel.

“What are you—wait, you good?” he asks, his eyes darting to the folder I’m hugging.

“Just trying to get a fax through. Apparently, that’s a crime now.”

Trevor raises a brow, then glances at the guard. “You’re not letting her in?”

“She’s not on the schedule.”

Trevor gives a short laugh and steps beside me. “I’ve got a friend who’s an associate here. One sec.” He taps on his phone, lifts it to his ear, and waits. “Yo. You in? Can you do me a favor? Girl needs a minute on your fax. Yeah. Cool.”

He hangs up and smiles. “You’re in.”

The guard hesitates then leans back with a reluctant nod. “Escort her directly.”

Trevor turns to me. “Come on. Let’s go before he changes his mind.”

We step into the elevator, and I finally breathe.

“What’s in the folder?” Trevor asks casually.

“Just a project. Some research I’ve been collecting. It’s for my senior thesis, and I need to fax it to Dr. Harrington,” I lie.

Trevor gives a low whistle. “Damn.”

The elevator dings, and we step out onto a pristine hallway lined with frosted glass doors and silence that feels expensive. Every inch of this floor screams power in pressed suits and polished shoes.

A man in his late twenties waves from one of the offices. “Trevor,” he grins, stepping out. His tie is slightly crooked. “Didn’t know you had friends with academic emergencies.”

“Neither did I,” Trevor says, bumping fists with him. “Faith, this is Will. Will, meet Faith.”

“Nice to meet you.” Will gestures toward his office. “Fax machine’s in the back corner. Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Actually… is there a restroom I can use first?”

“Yeah, right down the hall. Take a left past the elevators. Last door on the right.”

I nod and slip away, but I don’t go right.

I go up.

The top floor is different. Colder. More still. I walk slowly, almost holding my breath, until I see Christopher Valehart etched into a polished gold plate on a heavy, dark wooden door.

I glance around, but no one’s in sight, so I reach for the handle only to find it locked. I look across the hall. There’s another office. This has to be his secretary’s space. I slip inside, careful not to let the door click too loudly behind me.

A fax machine rests on a table in the corner. I pull the page from the folder, flatten it out, feed it through. My fingers tremble just slightly as I punch in the number for Veridian Correctional Facility. The machine whirs, processing each line slowly.

The confirmation page spits out, and I snatch it up. I should walk out, thank Will, and go back to pretending I’m not constantly toeing the edge of breaking the law.

Instead, I pick up the receiver.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears as I punch in the number. Each beep feels louder than it should. I can almost feel the heat of surveillance bearing down on my back. But no one walks in. The line clicks, then rings.

“Veridian Correctional Facility,” a man answers, bored. “How can I assist you?”

“Hi, yes,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I’m calling on behalf of Christopher Valehart. I need to schedule a callback with inmate Zane Valehart.”

“And you are?”

Shit.

I look around the office and catch the glint of a business card tucked into a crystal holder near the monitor. Clarissa M. Doyle – Executive Assistant to C. Valehart.

“Clarissa Doyle,” I say, reaching for the card and pressing my thumb hard against it. “Executive assistant to Mr. Valehart.”

“Alright, Ms. Doyle. What’s the purpose of the call?”

“It’s a legal matter. I’m not at liberty to discuss details, but Mr. Valehart requested this personally. It’s urgent. I’ve already sent the fax, you should have it on file. The callback needs to happen today.”

Papers shuffle in the background, and he exhales heavily, like I just ruined his plans to do absolutely nothing tonight.

“Zane Valehart doesn’t have this number registered. If Mr. Valehart wants to speak to his son, he needs to submit a formal request through the proper channels.”

“I understand,” I say. “But like I said, it’s urgent. I can let Mr. Valehart know about the registration issue, but in the meantime, could you at least relay the message? Tell Zane his father’s office called. He’ll know what it’s about.”

The guy sighs like I’m the most annoying part of his day, and that’s saying something considering he works at a prison. “Fine. Give me the number, and I’ll check if it’s within our security protocols. If everything checks out, we’ll allow him to make the call. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up before he can ask any more questions.

I lied to a prison.

I impersonated someone.

I just committed some kind of crime, probably.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.

But what’s done is done. The message is out there now. Whether Zane gives a fuck or not, that’s up to him.

I stare at the receiver in my hand, half-expecting sirens to wail outside the window, or the phone to explode in my hand, or thunder to crash overhead in divine protest. But nothing happens.

Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was desperate.

But if it gets Zane to answer me?

Then it’s worth it.