Page 19 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER NINE

THE BEAUTY

T he autumn air is crisp as I settle myself on a low wooden bench in the small grove just beyond the main campus.

It’s one of the few quiet spots where I can actually think away from the never-ending chatter of the student center, away from the constant buzz of people who don’t know how to mind their own damn business.

A thick folder sits open in my lap with it’s pages covered in neat notes, stapled reports, and lists of potential sources. The name at the top of every page is the same.

Zane Valehart.

I tap my pen against my notebook, rereading the approval form I’d finally managed to get signed.

Dr. Harrington had hesitated because he was concerned about ethics and boundaries but I’d worn him down with just the right balance of persistence and logical argument.

He’d signed off, which meant I now had more freedom to access non-personal records, and I was damn well going to take advantage of that.

All I had to do was piece together the right trail of where to look, who to ask and what to dig through.

I flip a page, underlining a few notes when suddenly my books and laptop nearly go flying as someone shoves a thick paper into my hands, knocking everything sideways in the process.

“Jesus fuck.”

I look up, scowling at the random asshole who just assaulted my personal space.

“Chill,” the guy says with a lazy grin. “Just passing out some quality weekend plans.”

“Do you have any concept of personal space?” I glare.

“Not when there’s a good time to be had.” He winks, then saunters off like he hasn’t just made it his life’s mission to be annoying as shit.

I exhale sharply, righting my laptop and books before finally glancing at the flyer.

HALLOWEEN NIGHT. STATE PENITENTIARY. LIVE DJ. HAUNTED CELL BLOCK TOUR. LIMITED TICKETS.

Wait.

What?

I read it again, pulse ticking up slightly.

A party. At the prison.

My fingers tighten on the paper, something cold and hot unfurling in my chest at the same time.

For the first time in a while, something feels... exciting.

I grab my phone, flipping through my contacts before pressing call.

Tria picks up on the second ring. “Tell me you didn’t just Google another serial killer at three in the morning.”

I roll my eyes. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I need to know—are we going to that Halloween thing at State Pen?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Hold on.”

A few seconds pass as I hear the sound of keys clicking.

“Done. We have tickets.”

“You didn’t even ask if I was serious.”

Tria snorts. “Faith. You just called me about a prison party . Of course you’re serious.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder how the fuck we became friends.”

“Because I enable your bad decisions and you’d be lost without me,” she says cheerfully. Then, more curious, “Wait—why are you actually interested? Last I checked, you don’t do Halloween parties. Or... parties, period.”

I hesitate. “It just looks interesting.”

Lying to Tria is useless.

She hums. “Uh-huh. And this definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you just got that prison project approved.”

“Maybe.” I twirl the pen between my fingers. “I don’t know. Just seems like an opportunity.”

“Fine. Just promise me that if you do something stupid, you’ll at least make it entertaining.”

I grin, gripping the flyer tighter.

The steady sound of rain hitting leaves drags me from sleep. Cool droplets slip down my face, soaking into my clothes, and I blink against the heavy gray sky.

What the fuck?

I push up on my elbows, my body stiff from sleeping against the goddamn tree. The once-dry grove is now a wet, muddy mess, and I realize my laptop is still on my lap, thank god it’s closed.

A shadow looms over me.

“You’re a raccoon,” Tria says flatly,

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re out here in the goddamn wilderness when you have a dorm room. Which, by the way, is already paid for.”

I wave a lazy hand. “It’s Veridian . What bad shit could possibly happen here?”

Tria snorts. “Oh, I don’t know. Serial killers? Cult sacrifices? Random fucking rainstorms?” She tosses a bottle of mouthwash. “Now fix your mouth before we go to class.”

I unscrew the cap, taking a burning swig, swishing it around before spitting it out onto the ground. My stomach churns, not from the mouthwash, but from the fact that my body still feels like it’s floating.

Tria watches me, clearly questioning my entire existence. “You should start making better life choices.”

I stand, rolling my neck until it pops , stretching my stiff muscles. “You’re the one enabling me by being here. So, really, whose fault is it?”

She side-eyes me. “Yours. Always yours.”

I huff a laugh, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and we start walking toward campus. The rain’s already slowing to a drizzle, but the clouds overhead are thick. The scent of wet earth clings to my clothes.

Halfway across the quad, Tria keeps talking—something about our professor being a cryptid and never actually grading shit—when she suddenly stops dead.

“What the fuck.”

I follow her gaze.

A couple stands near the library steps, wrapped up in each other like a goddamn movie scene. Hands gripping. Mouths pressed together. It’d be romantic if it wasn’t for one tiny, insignificant detail.

The guy?

I know him.

I knew him.

Tria’s voice is careful, hesitant. “Isn’t that—”

“Jason,” I finish.

“Faith… are you—”

I don’t let her finish.

My legs carry me before my mind catches up. I shove past students, my pulse pounding so hard in my ears it drowns out everything.

The rage doesn’t hit all at once.

It builds.

Crawls up my spine, sinks into my skin, grows with every step I take toward the one place I know won’t ask questions.

The college bar.

Tria works here, but she doesn’t try to stop me when I drop onto a barstool. She just moves behind the counter, watching me through narrowed eyes.

I tap my fingers against the wood. “Shots.”

She doesn’t move.

“Faith—”

“Shots, Tria.”

Her jaw tenses, but after a long beat, she grabs a bottle and pours. One shot. Then another. And another.

The first burns.

The second numbs.

By the fourth, I don’t care anymore.

Jason. Fucking Jason. That lying, spineless motherfucker.

I wasted three fucking months crying over him. Three months drowning in grief over someone I thought was dead. And for what?

For him to be alive, breathing, touching someone else like I never fucking existed?

“Faith…” Tria watches as I toss back another shot. “Maybe slow down—”

I glare at her, slamming the glass down. “Unless that’s Jason’s ghost out there, I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Tria sighs, running a hand through her hair, but she doesn’t argue. She just keeps pouring.

I don’t know how much time passes.

I don’t know how many shots go down before the burn in my throat turns to static, before my fingers tingle, before the edges of my vision blur.

But Tria knows.

She knows my limits better than I do.

Which is why, when I reach for another, she snatches the bottle away.

I scowl. “What the fuck?”

She folds her arms. “You’re done.”

“The fuck I am.”

“Chica. I let you drown yourself enough. But this?” She gestures at the empty glasses. “This isn’t going to make him any less of a piece of shit.”

Fuck her for being right.

But I know what will make me feel better.

I shove off the stool. Tria mutters a curse behind me, but she follows when I shove through the bar’s door. My feet move before I can think better of it, dragging me down the street, toward the one place I should avoid if I had an ounce of self-preservation.

The library.

It’s fucking laughable, really. Jason always used to say he liked being alone. Except now? That motherfucker isn’t alone. He is with that same girl.

I don’t know her name. I don’t fucking care.

I push through the door so hard it smacks against the wall, making the few people inside look up. Jason turns his head, and when his eyes land on me, he freezes.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Faith?”

“Oh, good. You still know my name.” I tilt my head. “That’s surprising, considering I was under the impression you were fucking dead.”

His mouth opens, then closes. His jaw works like he’s trying to find an excuse, something to make this less insane.

I don’t let him.

“How could you?” My voice wavers, but it’s not weak.

It’s too full of anger for that. “Do you have any fucking idea what I went through? At least when you were dead, it made sense that I was sad. It made sense that I was drowning in grief, that I—” I choke on my own words, and fuck, I hate him for this.

Jason shifts uncomfortably. “Faith, I—”

“Who even was it?” I snap. “Who the fuck called me pretending to be your mother? Who told me you were gone?”

His gaze darts to the girl beside him.

Oh, fuck no.

“Are you fucking serious?” I turn to the girl, who looks way too uncomfortable for someone dating a walking corpse. “Did you know?”

Her eyes widen. “What? No, I—”

Jason finally finds his voice. “Faith, just calm down.”

I grab his coffee and hurl it at him.

The coffee hits Jason dead center, splashing over his shirt and dripping onto the table. Some of it splatters onto the girl beside him, dark stains blooming across the sleeve of her sweater.

She gasps, jerking back in shock.

And for a split second, I feel satisfied.

Jason fucking deserves it. Every drop. Every burning second of it.

But then I see the girl.

She’s not the one who faked her fucking death. She’s not the one who let me sob into my goddamn pillow for months, wondering what the last thing I said to him was, if I could have saved him, if he regretted leaving me behind.

She’s just a girl,

And I did to her exactly what Jason did to me.

The library is dead silent except for the distant conversation from the far end of the room. The weight of a dozen stares presses down on me.

I swallow hard, forcing my breath to steady.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Not to Jason. I look at the girl, who’s still frozen, fingers twitching toward her sleeve, torn between wiping it down or blotting. “That wasn’t fair.”

She blinks, probably as stunned as I am that I actually apologized.

Then I turn, shoving past the chairs, the tables, the goddamn eyes burning into me. I need to get the fuck out of here.

Jason calls after me. “Faith, wait.”

I don’t.

I push through the library doors. The second the cold air hits me, I take a deep, shuddering breath.

What the fuck was that?

I let him win.

I let him turn me into this. Some out-of-control, rage-fueled, pathetic version of myself. Jason might have fucked with my head, but I’m the one who just turned into a fucking spectacle.

The door swings open behind me, and I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Tria sighs. “Jesus Christ, Faith.”

I let out a bitter laugh, rubbing my hands over my face. “Go ahead. Say it.”

She steps beside me, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “Say what?”

“That I’m crazy. That I need to get my shit together. That I just made a massive fucking fool of myself over some guy who clearly wasn’t worth it.” I drop my hands, tilting my head back to stare at the sky. “Go ahead. I fucking deserve it.”

Tria snorts. “Are you kidding? That was the most badass thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”

I blink. “What?”

“Faith, you threw coffee at your not-so dead ex-boyfriend. That’s iconic. I mean, yeah, technically, you were unhinged.” She nudges me. “But you were just giving the universe a little karmic justice.”

I stare at her. “You are such a bad influence.”

She shrugs. “And yet, you’d be lost without me.”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “I’m heading back to my room. No fucking way I’m sitting through a lecture after that.”

Tria doesn’t even hesitate. “I got you covered.”

I shoot her a look. “You mean, you’ll forge notes?”

She grins. “Obviously.”

“God, I love you.”

“I know.” She winks.

I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth tugs up as I turn and head toward my dorm.

By the time I reach my room, I barely manage to toe off my shoes before collapsing onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Fuck today.

I groan and press the heels of my palms into my eyes.

Blindly, I reach for my phone, unlock it, and stare at my messages.

For some reason, my fingers hover over Zane’s contact.

It’s fucking stupid.

I type out a message.

Then delete it.

Then type it again.

What the fuck do you even say to a prisoner who barely cares about your personal life?

I chew on my lip. Then, before I can overthink it, I send the simplest thing I can.