Page 18 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE MONSTER

I cross my arms, watching the latest ridiculous attempt at “rehabilitation” unfold in front of me. Some genius up top decided that car repair would be a good therapeutic activity because, yeah, that’s exactly what a bunch of murderers and thieves need. A fucking hobby.

Mark is currently hunched over a rusted-out junker, trying and failing to loosen a bolt. His brows are furrowed, and I can tell by the way his arms flex that he’s putting way too much effort into something that should be simple. The stubborn motherfucker won’t ask for help, though. Not from me.

Fine by me.

“Yeah, real graceful there. You sure you don’t want to take a break? Maybe go cry in the corner for a bit?”

Mark doesn’t even look at me. “Fuck off, Zane.”

“Come on,” I drawl, uncrossing my arms. “I’m just trying to help.”

I roll my shoulders as my mind re-runs against my will to Faith. I’ve been ignoring her. Leaving her messages unread. It’s better this way. Who the fuck knows if she’s even who she says she is? For all I know, she could be some thirteen-year-old kid sitting behind a laptop.

But that’s not it.

Something’s different about her.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away, and focus back on Mark, who’s still struggling.

“You want a hand, old man?” I ask, watching as he braces his foot against the car frame for leverage.

Mark finally looks up. “I swear to god, Zane, “ he exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, and turns back to the bolt. “I got it.”

I snort. “Yeah, sure you do.”

The wrench slips again, this time with enough force that Mark nearly falls forward. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as he shoves away from the car, breathing hard. His fingers flex like he’s debating whether to throw the wrench or just punch something.

“You sure you don’t want to ask your mom to come help?” I grin. “Or is she too busy fucking the mailman?”

“You’re a real fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I say, stretching my arms behind my head. “But at least I’m not losing a fight to a goddamn bolt.”

His nostrils flare again, but then, finally, with a sigh that sounds like it physically hurts him, he jerks his chin toward the car. “Fine. Get your ass over here.”

I push off the wall, shaking out my hands as I saunter over. “See? Was that so hard?”

Mark glares. “Shut the fuck up and get this thing off.”

I crouch next to the car, rubbing my fingers together before wrapping them around the bolt. It’s rusted, but I know the trick. A little twist, a little pressure, and—

Pop .

The bolt gives way.

Mark scowls. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

I wipe my hands on my shirt. “Guess you just don’t have the right touch. Maybe that’s why your last girlfriend ran off.”

He flips me off, muttering curses under his breath. I chuckle, leaning back on my heels. “Don’t take it personally. Not everyone’s got magic hands like me.” I lift my fingers, wiggling them. “These? These make bitches weak in the knees.”

Mark gags. “Jesus fucking Christ. Keep that shit to yourself.”

I laugh, but before I can make another sleazy remark, the sound of approaching footsteps catches my attention. Some new guy steps into the yard.

Another newbie. Great. How many of these motherfuckers am I gonna have to deal with? The kid’s too young to be in a place like this. He hesitates when he sees me, then squares his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, nodding at Mark first, then at me. “I’m Devin.”

I stare at him.

He smiles awkwardly. “Uh… I just got transferred here.”

I still don’t say shit.

Mark sighs, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, we figured. Welcome.”

“I heard there’s going to be a Halloween party around here. Is that true?”

“Yeah, there’s a party planned. Should be something different for a change.”

I bark out a laugh. “Oh yeah? Are you going to hang a fucking ghost from your bunk? Maybe leave out a bowl of candy for the guards?”

Devin hesitates. “Uh—”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“No, no,” I grin. “Halloween is a special time in here. See, they say this place is haunted. Full of ghosts of the men who never made it out. The ones who got their throats slit in their sleep. You know, guys just like you.”

Devin shifts, and his confidence shakes for a second.

“You believe in ghosts, rookie?”

He swallows. “Not really.”

“Good,” I murmur, stepping closer. “Because the only real monsters in here are flesh and blood. And you might not see them coming until it’s too fucking late.”

“Relax, Zane,” Mark sighs. “You’re not helping.”

“Just offering some words of wisdom to our eager friend here. After all, one man’s monster is another man’s mentor, isn’t that right?”

The conversation dies as the door swings open. A guard steps in tapping against his thigh like he’s just itching for an excuse to use it.

“Valehart,” he says flatly. “You’re coming with me.”

I don’t move. “Nah. I’m good right here.”

The guard sighs. “Not a request.”

“What if I say no?”

Mark shoots me a look. “For fuck’s sake, Zane.”

“This is serious, Valehart. Quit the attitude and follow me.”

I let the silence stretch. Devin rocks forward on his feet, watching to see just how fucking stupid I plan to be.

Finally, I sigh, shoving off the car. “You could at least say please.”

The guard doesn’t react. Shocker.

I flash him a grin anyway. “Fine, lead the way.”

He turns, and I follow, throwing Mark a lazy salute as I go.

The room they take me to is one of those sad little spaces that smells like burnt coffee and sweat. This is where important shit happens, apparently.

A lady is waiting for me when I step inside. Tight bun, sharp suit, the kind of woman who probably drinks her coffee black and thinks a smile is a sign of weakness.

“Mr. Valehart.”

“Mrs. Buzzkill.”

Her lips press together, debating whether or not I’m worth the headache. “Your father’s secretary called the prison. He has something important to discuss with you.”

My smirk vanishes.

For the first time in ten fucking years, my father has something to say?

I scoff. “Yeah? Tell him to send a postcard.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “He’s requested a call.”

I turn toward the door. “Not interested.”

I don’t care what my father wants. If he gave a shit, he would’ve reached out, oh, I don’t know, anytime in the last decade. Whatever this is, it’s not about me. It’s about him.

Just as I reach the threshold, something stops me.

A slow, creeping curiosity.

I turn back.

Mrs. Buzzkill is still sitting behind the desk with the phone number in hand.

“Actually, I think I’ll take that number.”

“Are you sure?”

I step forward, plucking the slip of paper from her fingers.

“If this is some long-lost father-son bonding shit, I’ll be so fucking disappointed.” I tuck the number into my pocket.

Her face stays blank.

I chuckle, shaking my head as I head for the phone room.

The guard barely glances at me as I take a seat. I pick up the receiver with the kind of forced patience I usually save for moments that toe the line between mildly amusing and a total waste of time.

The line clicks, and for a second, there’s nothing but silence. Then a soft inhale, like whoever’s on the other end wasn’t expecting this call to go through.

“Miss me?” I drawl.

“What the fuck?”

Bingo.

I laugh, low and slow. “That’s not exactly a warm welcome, good girl.”

“Zane?” she breathes, and fuck if that doesn’t do something to me. Her voice is tight, surprised, laced with something she probably doesn’t even realize is there. “How—why—”

“Didn’t think I’d call, did you?” I watch the guard from the corner of my eye. He’s not paying attention. “You went through all that trouble, lying through your fucking teeth, and now you’re speechless?”

Faith sucks in a breath. “Wait—how did you—”

“Oh, come on,” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Christopher Valehart’s assistant? That was the best you could come up with?”

There’s a beat of silence, and I can practically hear her brain scrambling for a way to recover.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” she snaps. “You’re calling me, aren’t you?”

I chuckle. “That’s funny. Shouldn’t I be calling you out on that? You’re the one who had my name in your mouth like a prayer.”

“I don’t pray.”

“Good.” My fingers drum against the metal casing. “God’s not listening anyway.”

The line goes silent, but it’s not the empty kind.

“So what? You finally decided to acknowledge my existence?” She scoffs.

“I figured if I ignored you any longer, you’d do something stupid. Like show up at the prison gates in a wedding dress.”

She makes a disgusted noise. “Not in this lifetime.”

“Shame. You’d look cute in white.”

“You don’t even know what I look like.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you look like.”

“Yeah?”

I shut my eyes, letting my mind overwork itself, pulling together pieces that don’t fit, forcing a face onto a voice.

It’s a goddamn compulsion. I could describe the sharp angles of a cheekbone, the slope of a nose, the depth of eyes that don’t belong to her, because I’ve done it before.

Photographic memory’s a bitch like that.

My brain assigns meaning where it doesn’t exist.

Except with her.

Her voice is the only thing I can’t frame. It doesn’t belong to any face, any form, any thing. It’s soft, but not weak. Strong, but not sharp. Smooth like the drag of silk across skin but with enough grit to sink teeth into. A contradiction wrapped up in breath and syllables.

But she doesn’t need to know that.

“You’ve got dark eyes. Sharp little mouth, too. Like you bite when you don’t get your way.”

She snorts. “You’re so full of shit.”

And then she laughs.

And fuck.

It’s not fair.

The sound is sharp, unfiltered, real. Like a knife sliding between ribs before you even feel the pain. It slams into my skull, freezes my thoughts, and fuck me, it makes my cock twitch in my jumpsuit.

“What do you really want, sweetheart?”

“I could lie and say this is purely for entertainment, but that’d be an insult to both of us. I want something from you.”

I arch a brow. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

“I want to study you.”

“Study me? What, you got a lab coat on the other end of the line? Are you taking notes? Maybe designing a clipboard?”

She doesn’t react to the dig.

“I get it,” I drawl mockingly. “You’re one of those overeducated little shits who spent too much time with your nose in psychology books. Let me guess, you think you’re brilliant. Think you can crack me open like a science experiment and scribble down my insides in your notebook?”

“I think you’re scared.”

The words hit like a fist straight to the sternum.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she levels. “You mock everything because it’s easier than facing it. Easier than admitting you’re terrified to let anyone see past all that bullshit you wear like armor.”

I scoff, but there’s something tight in my chest, something I don’t like. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do,” she counters. “You act as if you don’t care about anything, like nothing fucking touches you. But that’s not real, is it? It’s a performance. A well-practiced, overused, boring little performance.”

My jaw clenches. “Watch it, sweetheart.”

“Or what?” she presses. “You’ll threaten me? Scare me away? Please.” She laughs. “If you wanted me gone, you wouldn’t have called me.”

I wet my lips. “You’ve got a real reckless mouth, you know that?”

“Yeah?” She exhales. “And you’ve got a real fragile ego.”

I roll my neck, my free hand drumming against the table. “And why the fuck should I let you?”

“Because you’re curious too.”

“Curious about what, exactly?”

“About the world beyond those prison walls. About the possibility of connecting with someone, even in the most unlikely of places.”

“And why would I be curious about those things?”

“Because you’re a man who’s built walls so high, he imprisoned himself long before he ended up in that cell.”

Something hot and ugly coils low in my gut.

I let out a sharp laugh, bracing my elbows against the metal table. “You got all that from a couple of text messages, good girl? That’s impressive. Maybe you should go into fortune-telling instead of playing therapist.”

“I think I see you,” she corrects. “Whether or not you want to admit it is your problem.”

“Real fucking poetic. But let’s get something straight.” I drop my voice into something rough and low. “I don’t need you to see me. I don’t need shit from you.”

“So why are you still on the phone?”

My fingers tighten around the receiver.

She’s got a fucking mouth on her.

I like it.

Hate it.

“Maybe I just enjoy the sound of your voice.”

“And what does my voice sound like, Zane?”

I shut my eyes for half a second. Let myself sink into the cadence of her.

I open my mouth, about to tell her the truth—

Then the phone cuts out.

“Fuck!”

The dial tone hums in my ear.

I slam the receiver down, shoving away from the table. “Piece of shit prison phones.”

The guard by the door gives me an unimpressed look. I flip him off.

Fucking system.

Fucking interruptions.

I shake my head and shove my hands into my pockets as I make my way back to my block. But the annoyance doesn’t settle.

And it’s not just the phone.

It’s her .