Page 20 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER TEN

THE MONSTER

T he soft ping from my computer makes me glance over.

I don’t check messages often. Most of the time, it’s bullshit—automated prison notices, legal crap I don’t care about, or some dumbass inmate trying to scam me into a card game.

But this?

This is different.

I already know who it is before I open it.

And fuck me, I’m smiling. That stupid, useless fucking smile that I can’t seem to wipe off my face whenever I talk to her.

How long cn i get imprisond for if i hypothetically plan a murder of an ex boyfriend?

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head .

That depends. How clean are you planning to make it? If you’re drunk texting me on a Tuesday afternoon, I’m guessing… not very.

It takes all of five seconds for the typing bubbles to pop up.

how do you even kno that

I could lie and tell you I’m psychic. That I have a gift and I just know what drunk people look like.

Or I could tell you I spotted at least four grammatical errors in your last two messages, and that shit doesn’t usually happen when you’re sober.

It takes her longer to reply this time.

What r u my grammar teacher now?

Well, someone has to be. Even my cellmate spells better than you, and he’s been stabbing motherfuckers since middle school. Oh, and I don’t have a cellmate.

sounds like someone I’d get along with

Yeah, if you want to get shanked over a game of poker.

I knew it. I attract psychos.

Clearly. Exhibit A: You’re texting one.

She doesn’t respond right away, and for a second, I wonder if she passed out. Wouldn’t surprise me, considering how much of a mess her messages are.

At least you don’t fake die to get out of a relationship.

I stare at the screen.

...What the fuck?

exactly my fucking thought

I don’t know why the thought of someone doing that pisses me off. Maybe because it’s cowardly. Maybe because I know what real death looks like, and some asshole playing pretend just rubs me the wrong way.

Or maybe because I don’t like the idea of someone hurting her.

I shake that last thought off real quick.

Okay, I need details. Who do I need to kill?

Too late. I already called dibs.

Fuck. And here I was, hoping for some entertainment.

She sends a middle finger emoji.

I chuckle, rolling my shoulders back.

So, what’s your plan? Are you planning a full-on psycho ex rampage, or are we talking slow and subtle?

Somewhere between a baseball bat and a hitman.

Ah, so efficient yet personal. I like it.

Damn straight. If I go to prison, might as well be for something good.

I smirk.

You wouldn’t last a fucking week in here, good girl.

Bitch, please. I’d be running the place.

I laugh, shaking my head.

I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.

And yet…

I don’t want to stop.

You’re laughing, aren’t you?

What makes you think that?

Because I just know.

I smile.

Fucking hell.

I am laughing because I don’t think you have it in you. So, lay it on me. How do you plan on taking this motherfucker out?

Well. First, I start with his car.

I scoff, already unimpressed.

Boring. Slashing tires? Sugar in the tank? Please tell me you’re more creative than that.

Oh, I am. You ever heard of brake fluid “accidents”?

Still a rookie move. The cops will trace that shit back to you.

Fine. Plan B. Poison.

Weak.

Electrocution?

Messy.

You’re impossible.

I grin, stretching out my arms.

Okay, then. What about slow suffering? I could start small by stealing his mail, canceling his credit cards, making his life hell before he even knows why. And then, when he’s already losing his mind, I’ll hit him with something worse. A house fire, maybe. Gas leak.

Yeah, yeah. All very high school breakup revenge. You got anything actually worth my time?

Fine. You want nasty? I’ll give you nasty.

I’d wait until he parks somewhere busy, somewhere where people are always coming and going. Then I’d take a fucking crowbar to his headlights, his windshield. Smash every single mirror. Let him come back to nothing but shards.

Then, I’d find his apartment. I’d sneak in while he’s sleeping. And I’d make sure that when he wakes up, the first thing he sees is me. Holding the same knife he stabbed me in the back with.

I let out a low whistle.

Now that’s better. That almost sounds like you mean it.

I do.

Something about that makes my grin widen.

You know, I never thought planning a hypothetical murder would feel so… nice. Oh my god, there’s no difference between us, is there?

What? You think one little murder fantasy makes you a monster?

Maybe.

That’s cute, sweetheart.

Fuck you.

I smirk, running my tongue over my teeth.

I’m just saying, you think one twisted thought puts you on my level? You’re still safe in the light. You don’t know what it’s like to really be in the dark.

Oh, please. You act like you’re some kind of villain.

I tilt my head, considering.

I am.

No, you just like the idea of scaring people. Of making them think you’re worse than you are.

I let out a quiet laugh.

She’s interesting. Not because she’s right, but because she wants to be.

And you just like the idea of being bad. Makes it easier to forget you’re not.

She takes longer to reply this time.

Maybe I don’t want to be good.

I sit up a little straighter.

Why not?

Because I’m tired of playing nice. Maybe I want to be the one people are afraid of for once. Maybe I want to stop giving a fuck about rules and expectations and all the stupid bullshit that makes me… me.

I grin.

And what, you think I can help with that?

You tell me. You’re the expert, right?

Careful, good girl. You keep flirting with the dark, but once you’re in, there’s no climbing back into the light. You’ll bleed it out before you ever see it again.

Then maybe I’ll meet you in the shadows someday.

That shouldn’t do anything to me. It shouldn’t.

But it does.

Because whether she realizes it or not, she’s starting to understand.

What do you look like?

Well, I’m not a six-foot-tall model with legs for days if that’s what you’re imagining. But I do alright.

I haven’t even seen her, yet she’s already burned herself into my very bones.

There’s something about her that fills my lungs with the smoke of everything holy I swore I wouldn’t surrender to.

She’s the kind of beautiful that feels like an exorcism gone wrong, and I am a man undone by the mere thought of her.

Confidence looks good on you, good girl. But I was asking for a description, not a whole-ass ego boost.

She doesn’t hold back.

Well, if you must know, I’m petite, curvy in all the right places. And I’ve been told my smile is deadly.

Petite, curvy, and a deadly smile. Not bad. But what about your face? Give me some details.

Her next message is just as cocky as the last.

Oh, I’ve got killer eyes and a mischievous grin. How’s that for a mental image?

I shake my head, biting back a grin.

Killer eyes and a mischievous grin, huh? Careful, Faith, you’re giving me ideas.

She doesn’t miss a beat.

Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your flow, Zane. Keep the ideas coming.

You’re good at dodging real answers, aren’t you? Let’s try this again—describe your face. And don’t hold back.

This time, she gives me what I want.

Fine. My skin’s pale, my eyes are wide and blue, sometimes gray, depending on the light. My eyebrows are arched, my nose is straight, and my cheeks have this natural blush thing going on. My face is oval, and my hair is blonde, long, wavy… happy now?

Damn. You do have a way of painting a picture.

Then… nothing.

A minute passes. Then two. Then five.

I drum my fingers against my desk, staring at the message. Faith never just disappears mid-conversation, especially not when she’s winning.

For all I know, she could’ve just passed out, maybe crashed after all that murder-planning adrenaline wore off. But still… something about the silence feels off.

I hover over the keyboard, debating whether to text her again.

It would be easy. One quick message. But I don’t fucking do that. I don’t check in.

So I don’t send it.

Instead, I push back from my desk, running a hand down my face. It’s been years—years—since I last felt indecisive. I don’t even remember the last time I sat around wondering whether or not to say something.

I grab a blank canvas and my fingers reach for the paint tubes. The scent of acrylic hits me as I pop the caps, squeezing out colors without thinking.

Blue. Gray. White. A touch of pink.

I roll my sleeves up, flex my fingers, and press them straight into the paint. My fingers have always done a better job, they know how to shape things exactly how I want them, how to get every goddamn detail right.

I start with the eyes.

Wide. A shade that could switch between blue and gray, depending on the light.

I swipe my thumb through the paint, blending it, shaping it, until the eyes stare back at me. They’re expressive. Almost too much.

I move to the rest of the face, forming delicate lines with my fingertips, smoothing the curve of high cheekbones, the arch of sharp eyebrows.

The slight slope of a nose, the soft fullness of lips.

Blonde hair spills around the edges of the canvas, waves that almost move when I smudge them just right.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but when I finally straighten, my fingers are stained in color and my chest is rising and falling harder than it should.

She’s beautiful.

And I don’t even know if the painting does her justice.

I stare at the painting for a moment longer before shaking my head and shoving it aside. This is fucking ridiculous.

I wipe my hands on an old rag, tossing the paint-covered thing onto the floor. Then I head to my bunk, lying back against the shitty mattress, staring at the ceiling.

The prison hums with its usual sounds—muffled voices, the occasional clank of metal, the distant bark of a guard. White noise. The kind of shit you learn to tune out if you want to get any sleep in this hellhole.

But then I hear a noise from the next cell over. It’s quiet at first. Muffled.

Then it escalates.

A struggle. A fucking whimper.

I’m on my feet before I even think about it. At first, I assume it’s Mark being a nuisance again. Wouldn’t be the first time. But then I hear a threatening voice, not Mark’s.

My jaw clenches.

I step out of my cell and approach the bars of the next one. The shitty lighting barely does anything, but I don’t need to see much.

Some piece-of-shit inmate has Mark pressed up against the wall. I slam the door open and grab the guy by the collar before he even realizes I’m there. He squeaks, but I don’t give him time to say shit.

I drag him out of the cell, shoving him forward. He stumbles, trying to catch his footing, but I don’t let up.

We’re going outside.

The yard.

Where the guards don’t give a fuck what happens.

Where I can make an example of him.

By the time we step into the open air, the guy’s struggling, trying to pull back, but my grip on his collar is like iron. He’s scrawny. A fucking weasel.

I shove him forward, and he stumbles onto the dirt.

“Zane—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.

I punch him. Hard. Right in the fucking gut.

He chokes, doubling over, but I grab his head and yank him up before slamming my fist into his face.

He stumbles back, trying to put distance between us. “I—I didn’t know—”

I hit him again.

And again.

My knuckles split open, but I don’t stop.

I grab his shirt, hauling him up before kneeing him in the ribs. He lets out a wheezing cough, spitting blood onto the dirt.

“Didn’t know what?” I growl, shaking him.

His hands grasp weakly at my wrist. “Didn’t know he was off-limits.”

I let out a cold laugh. “Off-limits?” I slam him into the ground. “Motherfucker, you shouldn’t need a fucking warning to know not to touch someone who doesn’t fucking want it.”

I shove him back down, pressing my knee against his ribs just hard enough to make him groan. “Tell me, asshole,” I say. “You ever hear about that bank job? The one from eight years ago. Big fucking deal at the time.”

His brow furrows, blood dripping from his busted lip.

Yeah. He remembers.

“The fuck does that have to do with me?” he rasps.

“You’re going to confess to it.”

His breath stutters. “What?”

I shift my weight, applying more pressure to his ribs until he wheezes. “That big, nasty fucking heist? The one that left two guards in the ground and a vault cleaned out? You did it.” I slap his chest. “Say it.”

His head jerks from side to side. “I didn’t—”

I grab his jaw, fingers digging into bruised flesh.

“You didn’t?” I mock, leaning closer, letting my breath fan across his face.

“I know you didn’t, dipshit. You were still running around doing petty-ass drug deals back then.

But guess what?” I slap his face lightly, taunting.

“It doesn’t fucking matter. You’re going to confess anyway. ”

His nostrils flare. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure your ass lands in max security by the end of the fucking week.” I tilt my head. “And you know what happens to little shits like you in max, don’t you?”

I tap his cheek again, condescending as hell. “So what’s it going to be? You take the fall for something you already got a record for, or you end up with a whole new set of problems in a place where motherfuckers don’t take kindly to little rats like you?”

His throat bobs, and I see the wheels turning in his head. He’s trying to find a way out, some kind of deal.

Pathetic.

He licks his split lip, eyes darting around like salvation is gonna come crawling out of the fucking dirt. “What if—what if I can give you something else?”

I laugh, full and sharp. I grab his collar, yanking him close. “I don’t negotiate, I dictate.”

He swallows thickly. “Zane—”

“Go ahead,” I cut him off, standing and yanking him up with me. He stumbles, legs barely holding him up. “Keep testing me. See how long you last before I break every fucking bone in your body and then get you transferred anyway.”

His breath shudders, and I see the exact moment he realizes he’s already lost.

Good.

“Now. Say it.”

His lips part, and though his words are barely above a whisper, it’s music to my fucking ears.

“I did it.”