Page 21 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE BEAUTY

I wake up to the sun trying to burn a hole through my skull.

It filters through the blinds, but it might as well be a goddamn laser beam drilling straight into my brain. My head pounds with a rhythmic throb that makes me groan and bury my face into my pillow. Fuck. How much did I drink last night?

I groan, dragging a hand down my face before reaching blindly for my phone on my nightstand. My fingers fumble over nothing.

With a grunt, I roll over, and after some half-hearted patting under my pillow, my fingers finally close around the cool metal. I pull it out, squinting at the unlocked screen, and I’m smiling.

What the fuck?

I feel like absolute shit, so why the hell am I grinning like an idiot?

I blink blearily at my phone, thumbing it open, and the answer is staring me right in the face.

Zane.

I scroll through our texts from last night, and goddammit, my smile widens. I don’t even stop it this time.

Jesus.

The sound of my door swinging open makes me shove my phone under the blanket, wiping the expression off my face just as Tria steps in.

She sees my face, and beams.

I scowl. “Wipe that shit off.”

“Wow.” She whistles low, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. “You wake up smiling and now you’re embarrassed? What’s got you looking like a lovesick fool?”

“I am not,” I cut myself off. “Fuck off.”

She grins wider. “Was it a good dream? A sex dream?” She gasps, dramatically clutching her chest. “Was it about Trevor?”

“Jesus, Tria. You are so annoying.”

She flops onto the bed beside me, propping her chin up in her palm. “I know. It’s part of my charm.”

I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right. I have good news and bad news for you.”

“Good news first.”

Tria’s grin turns downright devious. “Jason’s car got totaled.”

My eyes snap open. “What?”

“Yup.” She pops the ‘p’ with satisfaction. “It’s completely wrecked. Might as well be a scrap heap.”

“Is he okay?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s the bad news. He’s going to live.”

“Thank god.”

Tria recoils like I just slapped her across the face. “Excuse me?”

I tilt my head at her. “What?”

“You—” She blinks. “You’re actually okay? I just told you your ex-boyfriend, who faked his own death, could’ve been wiped off the face of the planet, and you’re not dancing on his hypothetical grave?”

I shrug, sitting up against the headboard. “I don’t want him dying over a breakup.” Then, I grin. “But I am happy his car got totaled.”

Tria shakes her head, laughing. “You’re too nice, you know that?”

I raise a brow. “That was me being nice. If I were really nice, I wouldn’t be so happy about his insurance premium skyrocketing.”

She snorts. “Okay, true.”

I throw the blanket off me and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, ready to haul myself up and pretend like I have my shit together.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Getting ready for class?”

“Yeah, no, you’re not. Dr. Harrington canceled his classes today. Said something about giving everyone extra time to focus on their projects.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh .” She smirks. “And here I thought you’d be happy about getting a free day to recover from your self-inflicted near-death experience.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Too late.” She claps her hands. “Anyway, I’m heading out with Xaden to check out some clinical firms for research. Wanna tag along?”

I shake my head. “I’m doing a different project. I’d rather take care of it on my own.”

Tria raises a brow. “You’re going to take care of that looking like that?”

I stare at her blankly for a second before realization crashes into me. I feel like absolute shit.

I groan, flopping back onto my bed. “Fuck me.”

“Not necessary.” She grins. “Because I am an amazing best friend, and I brought you a hangover cure.”

I squint at her. “What kind of cure?”

She pulls a water bottle and two painkillers from her jacket pocket.

“That’s not a cure. That’s common fucking sense.”

“Yeah, and considering how dumb you are, it’s a miracle you have me.” She shoves them into my hand. “Drink up, bitch.”

I roll my eyes but do as she says, swallowing the pills dry before chugging the water.

“Atta girl,” she coos. “Now get dressed. You have twenty minutes to look like a functioning human being.”

“Fuck off.”

“You love me.”

I scowl. “Debatable.”

She laughs, throwing a pillow at my face before skipping out of the room.

The records archive is colder than I expected.

Not just in temperature, though the air-conditioning is blasting like they’re trying to preserve people instead of paper, but in the whole vibe of the place. The walls are dull, the lights too white, and everything smells faintly of old paper and something vaguely chemical.

The place is dead quiet, but there’s movement. A few people sit at tables, hunched over old files, some flipping through pages, others typing on laptops. The fluorescent lights hum above me, and my boots echo too loud against the tile as I make my way to the front desk.

There’s a blonde woman sitting behind it, scrolling through her phone as though she wants someone to give her an excuse to be an asshole. Beside her, a wiry-looking man taps away at a keyboard, his glasses slipping down his nose. Neither of them look like they want to deal with me.

I stop in front of the desk and clear my throat. “Hey. I need access to case records from the last decade.”

Blondie barely looks up. “What kind of cases?”

“Prison files. Any arrests, trials, sentencing records.” I pull out the document Dr. Harrington signed, along with my college ID. “I have authorization.”

She finally looks at me, eyes flicking over the papers in my hand. Then, she sighs so dramatically I almost expect her to roll her eyes, but she just takes the document and barely skims it before handing it back.

Blondie barely suppresses a groan as she reaches under the desk and pulls out a thick stack of paper. She slaps it down in front of me with all the enthusiasm of someone working a dead-end job.

“Fill this out,” she says, pushing a pen toward me.

I glance down at the form. It’s at least four pages long, dense with legal jargon and bureaucratic bullshit.

“This is just for access?” I ask, raising a brow.

She shrugs. “Yes, it’s a standard procedure. You need to describe your research purpose, sign the non-disclosure agreement, and agree not to remove or damage any files. Also, no photography unless explicitly permitted.”

I pick up the pen, scanning through the form.

Research Purpose: I scribble down something formal. Analysis of legal procedures and sentencing trends over the last decade .

Institutional Affiliation: I fill in my college and professor’s name.

Duration of Research: I have no fucking clue, so I estimate a month.

Acknowledgment of Confidentiality: I skim the section, signing where necessary.

Penalty for Unauthorized Disclosure: $10,000 fine and potential legal action. Fantastic.

Blondie taps her nails against the desk impatiently. “You done?”

“Almost,” I mutter, scanning the last few lines.

Do you have prior felony convictions? No.

Do you understand that some files may contain graphic or distressing material? Yes.

Do you waive any liability against the archive for emotional distress caused by reviewing case materials?

I hesitate. That’s a weird clause.

With a small sigh, I sign my name.

Blondie takes the form, skims over the details before stamping it.

“Alright,” she says, standing up. “Follow me.”

The guy beside her spares me a glance but doesn’t say shit as she stands and leads me down a hallway.

The further we go, the stronger the smell of paper and dust gets. The hallway is lined with locked doors, and I swear this whole place is built like a damn fortress.

Blondie stops at one of the doors, swipes her keycard, and pushes it open. “This is the file room,” she says, as if I’m too dumb to figure that out myself. “Index is on the computer. Don’t mess anything up.”

I step inside, and she’s already walking away before I can even say thanks for the hospitality .

The file room smells like dust and ink and things people have tried to forget.

Rows and rows of shelves stretch out in front of me, stacked with files, case notes, trial records, all of them holding the worst days of someone’s life, neatly categorized in boxes.

I pull the first file from the stack and flip it open. A crime scene photo stares back at me. Blood is splattered across a cheap motel floor and a broken bottle is lying next to a woman’s outstretched hand. Her eyes are open, vacant.

I swallow hard and turn the page.

Another case. Another victim. Another ruined life.

How many dreams ended in these pages? How many futures were rewritten in the worst way possible?

I brush my fingers over a picture of a girl, barely older than me. Her face is frozen in time. She had plans. People who loved her. Maybe she had a cat. A favorite song. A shitty coffee order she insisted was so good even though it wasn’t. And now she’s just a file in a room no one cares about.

I shut the folder and sigh.

I move to the computer in the corner and I type in the one name that matters right now.

Zane Valehart.

Nothing.

I try again. First name. Last name. Full name.

Still nothing.

I grind my teeth. Guess I have to do this the hard way.

I push away from the computer and move to the rows of boxes stacked high, each labeled with years and case types.

It’s hell.

Three hours in, and I swear my fingers are covered in a layer of dust so thick it could be carbon dated. I go through file after file, names blurring together, my back aching from bending over box after box.

A sharp knock on the door makes me jerk, nearly dropping the file in my hands.

Blondie leans against the doorway. “We’re closing in an hour.”

I glance at the time. Shit.

I push to my feet. “Can I get just a little more time?”

She stares at me. “We close in an hour.”

I press my hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “Please. I just need ten more minutes.”