Page 22 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

“Fine. Ten minutes. If you’re not out by then, I’m dragging you out myself.”

I flash her a grateful smile before diving back into the files, flipping through pages faster now.

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

Ten minutes fly by, and I find nothing.

Blondie steps inside this time. “Time’s up.”

Fuck.

I stare at the stack of files, but there’s no arguing with her.

“Yeah,” I mutter, snapping a box closed. “Got it.”

I shove it back onto the shelf, stand up, and turn when a dull thud echoes through the silent room.

My muscles lock up and a strange prickle runs down my spine as I slowly turn back toward the source.

My breath hitches as my eyes land on a single file that has slipped from the crowded shelf, lying haphazardly on the floor.

The cover is slightly ajar, just enough for a single photograph to slide free

Zane’s mugshot.

He looks younger, but those sharp eyes are the same, burning through the paper with a warning stitched in every line.

I straighten, gripping it tighter, and turn to Blondie. “I need to borrow this.”

She raises a brow. “You can’t just borrow a file.”

I shove my ID toward her. “I’ll pay. Whatever it costs.”

She eyes me for a long moment before sighing. “Fine.”

I follow her back to the front desk, leave my ID, hand over the payment, and step out of the archive with the file tucked securely under my arm.

I don’t know whether to feel victorious or terrified.

The second I step inside, I toss my bag onto the chair and sit cross-legged on my bed, exhaling sharply. The file sits in front of me and for a second, I just stare at it.

Then I flip it open.

The first thing I see is a photo of him, not a mugshot, not a crime scene picture, just an ordinary snapshot of a boy who couldn’t be older than ten or eleven. He looks young, almost innocent, with wide eyes that haven’t yet hardened with time.

I don’t know why the fuck I like looking at this picture. Maybe because he looks… normal. Happy, even. Not like someone who had the potential to do what he did.

I shake my head and shove the photo aside.

Two people are dead because of him.

I push through the documents. Transcripts, reports, blurry photos of the aftermath. The brutality written out in these pages doesn’t match the voice that’s been teasing me through a screen, or the stupid smirks I can hear through his texts.

None of this makes sense.

I flip another page, and a name catches my eye.

Gabriella Foster.

She was his best friend.

Without hesitating, I grab my laptop, flipping it open and sliding the CD into the drive. My foot bounces anxiously against the bed as the screen loads. The trial footage starts playing, the courtroom filling my screen, and I hold my breath.

“State your full name for the record,” Carrie prompts.

“Foster, Gabriella Leigh.”

“And your relationship to the defendant?”

Her throat works before she answers. “We are... best friends.”

“Ms. Foster, how long have you known Zane?”

“Since we were kids. We grew up together.”

Carrie nods, letting the familiarity settle before she pushes forward. “So you knew him well?”

“I’d say so.”

It’s deliberately vague, and Carrie picks up on it immediately. Her lips curve, but it’s not a smile. More like the barest baring of teeth. She reaches into the folder in front of her, pulls out a photograph, and steps toward the witness stand.

“Good. Then I imagine you remember this?” Carrie holds up a photo, flips it around. The camera doesn’t catch what’s on it, but it doesn’t need to. Gabriella’s face drains of color.

Her mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

Carrie doesn’t wait. “March 14th. You were fifteen. You and Zane were at a house party in Bellridge. A boy named Caleb Dent said something about your mother, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened next?”

“I don’t remember all of it.”

Carrie steps forward. “Should I remind you?”

Yvette shoots up from her seat. “Objection! Relevance.”

Overruled.

“Zane beat him,” Gabriella finally admits. “Dragged him out by the collar and kicked him down the porch stairs.”

“Kicked?” Carrie arches a brow. “Ms. Foster, the hospital records said Caleb had a fractured rib, a dislocated shoulder, and two missing teeth. That’s not a ‘kick.’ That’s a warning.”

“He was provoked.”

“He was fifteen,” Carrie snaps. “Same as Zane. And you’re telling me a comment, no matter how cruel, justified that kind of attack?”

Gabriella looks down. “He thought I was crying.”

“Were you?”

Silence.

“He always thought crying meant someone needed to be defended. Even if they didn’t ask for it. He didn’t know how to stop once he started. He thought pain... meant loyalty.”

I watch her break apart one word at a time. She’s not sobbing, not shaking. She just looks shattered.

“So you’re saying he hurt people... because he cared?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s your justification? That love gave him permission to cause permanent damage?”

Gabriella looks at something past the judge, somewhere above the jury box. “I’m saying he didn’t know another way to show it.”

“Let the record reflect: the defense’s ‘character witness’ just confirmed that Zane Valehart equates violence with affection.”

The courtroom murmurs. The judge bangs the gavel once. It doesn’t stop the sound in my ears.

“Objection!” Yvette snaps. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

Carrie doesn’t let up. “While we’re on the subject of things that are crimes—” She pulls another paper from her stack and skims it, though she knows the details by heart. “Let’s talk about his relationship with a faculty member”

Gabriella barely reacts, but I don’t miss the way her fingers dig into her thigh.

Carrie continues, unrelenting. “He didn’t just sleep with her, did he?”

Silence.

“He recorded it.”

Gabriella lifts her chin. “It was consensual.”

“Oh? And what was his reason for doing it?”

Gabriella lifts her chin. “She humiliated Alex.”

“Excuse me?”

Gabriella’s fingers clench. “She embarrassed his brother. Zane was protecting Alex.”

Carrie barks out a laugh. “Protecting him?” She steps closer with a predatory gleam in her eyes. “And how exactly did filming a sex tape protect Alex?”

Gabriella hesitates.

“He could’ve gone to the school committee. Could’ve taken it to the administration. Last I checked, Christopher Valehart owns the goddamn property. Instead of doing the legal thing, Zane chose to commit a crime.”

“Objection!” Yvette interjects. “The prosecution is twisting events to frame the defendant in the worst possible light.”

“I don’t need to twist anything, Your Honor. The facts do that just fine.”

The judge sighs but gestures for her to move on.

“Now that the jury has heard just how violent Zane Valehart was at sixteen—how he was more than willing to sink below the belt to get what he wanted—why don’t you tell the court something we all want to know?” She pauses. “Did he commit those murders?”

She looks at Zane and says, “I’d like to assert my Fifth Amendment rights.”

The silence is deafening.

Carrie shakes her head before stepping back. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

The screen goes black, and I just sit there, gripping the file so fucking hard it might tear apart in my hands. I shove the file away, pressing my fingers to my temples. My skin is clammy, my breaths uneven.

That was supposed to give me answers.

Instead, I feel more fucking lost than ever.

I grab my phone before I can stop myself, my fingers moving on instinct.

Why did you do it?

The response is instant.

Wasn’t this something you were supposed to figure out?

Don’t give me that cryptic bullshit.

Touchy, aren’t we?

You damaged a fifteen-year-old boy. You recorded a teacher and ruined her life. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Nothing.

You’re a fucking monster. How the fuck can you justify that? I thought maybe there was more to this, but you’re exactly the sick bastard they painted you as.

You’re disgusted by me now?

What, you expected me to be charmed? Sorry, Zane, but the whole “cold-blooded killer” thing isn’t really doing it for me.

You had no problem talking to me before.

Yeah, well, I didn’t know you were a psycho then.

You still don’t.

A scoff rips out of me.

Oh, right. I forgot. You’re so fucking misunderstood.

I don’t know why I’m so angry.

Or maybe I do.

Maybe it’s because I wanted there to be a reason. A justification. Some sick, twisted explanation that would somehow make sense of the fact that this man—this calm, unreadable, dangerous man—is capable of killing people.

And instead, I got nothing.

No guilt. No remorse.

Nothing.

I hate you.

This time, the three dots appear. Then disappear.

I don’t wait for his reply.