Page 25 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE BEAUTY

I spin around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

But there’s no one there.

The spot behind me is empty. My heart pounds, trying to break free from my ribs, and I blink hard, rubbing my eyes like that’ll change what I’m seeing. Or… not seeing.

Because no one is there.

And yet when I look down at my dress. The fabric at my waist is crumpled exactly where someone held me.

A shiver rolls down my spine. My fingers brush over the spot, feeling the phantom pressure of his hand, the ghost of his grip still burning through the material.

Zane.

I turn to Tria. “Did you see anyone just now?”

“Faith, it’s a Halloween party. There are people everywhere.” She gestures around us, at the mass of bodies moving, dancing, drinking. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Right.

It’s nothing.

It’s—fuck, it’s just the atmosphere. The music, the lights, the adrenaline of the night playing tricks on me.

I force a tight smile and nod. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Tria grins. “Damn right I am. Now, let’s get some drinks before I start thinking too hard about life and spiral into an existential crisis.”

I laugh, pushing the moment away, forcing my shoulders to relax as we weave through the crowd toward the bar.

The bar is packed. People are shouting orders over each other. Tria elbows her way through, flashing a flirty smile at the bartender, and within seconds, we’ve got two shots lined up in front of us.

“To bad decisions,” she toasts.

I roll my eyes, but I clink my shot glass against hers anyway.

“To bad decisions,” I echo.

The tequila burns all the way down, but it’s exactly what I need.

The second shot goes down just as easy.

The music pounds through the room and the bass rattles my ribs until it sinks into my bones.

I move against the counter and let the rhythm take me as my hips sway in sync with Tria.

We don’t bother with the dance floor because we don’t need it.

We dance here, pressed to the bar, moving with the music, with the buzz of tequila thrumming through our veins.

I let go of the feeling still tingling on my skin.

I let go of the ghost in my ear.

I let go of Zane.

Until I don’t.

Because when I reach for my fourth shot, my fingers curl around the glass, and the second I turn back, I see him.

Or at least, I think I do.

The breath in my chest locks up as my eyes snap back to the bartender.

I try to breathe. Try to remember how to make my ribs expand, how to make my lungs pull in air. But I can’t move because his eyes—God, his fucking eyes.

They pin me in place, and suddenly, I feel small. Not in a fragile way, not in a way that suggests I could be broken, but in a way that makes me feel preyed upon.

Up close, they’re wrong. Unnatural. A color that doesn’t belong on anything human.

So pale they’re almost white like pearls soaked in moonlight, haunting in a way that makes something cold coil at the base of my spine.

But his pupils? They’re black. Swallowed whole.

So fucking dark I could fall right in and never find my way back.

I blink. He doesn’t.

I inhale. He doesn’t fucking move.

The longer I stare, the more wrong it feels.

Like he’s not standing behind the bar. Like the distance between us is fake, a trick my brain is playing to keep me from screaming.

My fingers dig into the counter, desperate for an anchor, because if I let go—if I so much as shift an inch—I know I’ll fall.

I have to move.

I have to say something.

I force my throat to push air through my vocal cords and try to break the silence that’s suffocating me. “Tria.”

His head tilts. Just slightly.

My stomach fucking drops.

I can’t do this.

I can’t fucking do this.

My brain finally catches up. He’s in prison. There is no way he can be here.

None.

I’m drunk and my brain is playing tricks on me, and I need to get my shit together before I spiral in the middle of a crowded bar.

I swallow hard and try again. “Tria.”

Nothing.

Jesus Christ.

I tear my eyes away, whip my head to the side, and grab Tria’s arm in a death grip. My nails sink into her skin as I shake her, hard enough that she stumbles into me.

“What the fuck, Faith?” she snaps, jerking back.

“Look,” I rasp. “Look at the bartender.”

Tria’s annoyed gaze flicks past me. She doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t gasp in horror. Doesn’t react the way she should if she saw what I saw. Instead, she smirks, giving me a slow once-over.

“Damn,” she says, grinning. “He’s hot as fuck.”

My stomach knots.

“I can totally see you banging him tonight,” she adds, bumping my shoulder.

I dare to look again and I exhale so hard I choke on it.

Because it’s not him.

Just a guy. A guy with a normal set of eyes, with a normal amount of menace, which is to say, none.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I shove a hand through my hair, dragging my fingers down the back of my neck to ground myself. I’m losing it. Either that, or the tequila is fucking with my head in ways it never has before.

“You okay?” Tria asks, nudging me.

“Yeah. Just… thought I saw something.”

Tria rolls her eyes. “Babe, you need another shot.”

I laugh, but it’s forced. Stiff. “No, I think I need water.”

“Well, good timing, because Xaden just texted. He’s meeting us at the House of Illusions.” She wiggles her brows.

“Let’s go, then.”

I don’t wait for her reply. I just grab her hand and pull her into the crowd, away from the bar, away from the bartender, away from whatever the fuck just happened.

The House of Illusions looms ahead, its entrance is framed by a swirling fog that’s clearly just a machine pumping out artificial smoke.

We step up to the threshold, and I glance around.

“Where the hell is he?” Tria asks, digging into her pocket.

I snort, but my gaze keeps sweeping over the crowd.

Then I hear Tria scream.

My body jerks as I spin toward her, only to see her wrapped in Xaden’s arms, laughing as he lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my chest. “A little warning next time?”

Tria giggles, smacking Xaden’s chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“Good,” Xaden says smugly, setting her back down. “That’s what you get for making me track you down.”

“Oh, please,” Tria scoffs, tucking her phone back into her pocket. “We’re exactly where we said we’d be. You’re just slow.”

Xaden grins. “Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to make an entrance.”

I roll my eyes. “Are we going in, or are we just going to stand here and admire the special effects?”

Tria crosses her arms. “I mean, is it even worth it? It’s just a bunch of fake-ass illusions.”

Xaden leans in. “Scared, baby?”

She scoffs. “Of this? Please.”

He smirks. “Then let’s go.”

Tria groans but doesn’t argue.

We start toward the entrance, but before we can even take two steps, Xaden tugs Tria back to him. She doesn’t resist. In fact, she melts against him, tilting her head up just in time for his lips to crash against hers.

I turn away, trying to give them their moment, but Tria’s giggle pulls my attention back.

“Behave, Xaden,” she scolds, swatting his arm.

“Always, my love,” he smirks down at her.

I shake my head, but a smile tugs at my lips. I motion toward the door. “Shall we, then?”

Xaden doesn’t answer.

Because he’s already pulling Tria in again, this time not letting her go when she tries to break the kiss.

“Guys,” I groan. “You might want to save that for later.”

They don’t.

The kiss deepens, turning into a full-on make-out session right there on the goddamn doorstep. Xaden’s fingers sink into Tria’s hips, and she winds her arms around his neck.

Heat creeps up my neck. I love them both, but I do not need to be a witness to this.

“Try not to get too distracted,” I mutter, stepping past them and walking straight through the entrance.

The second I step inside, the door swings shut behind me with a heavy, final thud.

Darkness is the first thing that registers. There’s not a single thing I can see. No shadows, no shapes, no faint glow of the outside world seeping in from the cracks. My breath stutters and every other sense kicks into overdrive.

I smell black roses. The sweetness of black roses saturates the sharp tang of leather and the scorched remnants of wood still warm from the flames.

I reach for my phone, but my fingers brush against empty fabric.

Fuck.

Tria has it.

I force myself to think for an alternative. A way to navigate this goddamn funhouse without losing my way when light explodes around me. It floods my vision so fast, I snap my eyes shut against the sting.

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to adjust, forcing my eyes open again.

And that’s when I see Zane standing behind me.

Or at least, a reflection of him.

The mirror stretches in front of me casting back an image that doesn’t make sense. My brain fights to rationalize it, to come up with an explanation that doesn’t involve me completely losing my mind.

Maybe my subconscious is playing tricks on me. Maybe I want to see him so bad that my mind has conjured up a ghostly version of him.

Only this ghost, believe it or not, is the one I’d willingly let haunt me for all eternity.

He’s decked out in a way that can only be described as sinfully hot—a tux that makes him look like a goddamn movie star.

And under this light, I have to admit, he looks good.

And I don’t mean just good like you’d describe a pretty girl.

No, Zane has that universal kind of hotness that makes people do a double take.

His dark hair is all tousled, messy in that effortless, I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-like-this way. His eyes are intense like they hold a thousand secrets, and that classic Zane smirk? The one with a single dimple on the left cheek? Yeah. That just seals the fucking deal.

It’s no wonder the media calls him the most good-looking criminal alive.

But honestly? That title is a joke because it barely scratches the surface of what he actually is.

He’s not just handsome, he’s magnetic. The kind of man who pulls your gaze without even trying.

Who makes you want to look, even when your gut is screaming at you not to.

And the way the light hits him? It just makes every sharp contrast, every dark edge, every impossible detail of him even more real.

Our eyes lock, and suddenly, nothing else exists.

My hand trembles as I reach for the mirror, fingertips brushing the cool glass, not because I expect it to shatter or pull me in but because he’s on the other side.

His eyes flutter and then he closes them.

Just for a second.

But fuck, that tiny movement sends a jolt of something hot and electric through me, like my body just got plugged into a live wire.

I turn away from the mirror, half-expecting him to be standing there behind me.

But all I see is my own reflection.

I look... unsure. And probably horny as hell.

A small smirk tugs at my lips. Jesus. Did I actually think Zane was going to step right out of the mirror? Talk about wishful thinking.

But before I can fully laugh it off, the mirrors around me shift. Smoke oozes from the edges, creeping along the glass, swirling through the air. The second it touches my skin, I shut my eyes.

When I force my eyes open what I see nearly knocks the breath out of me.

Every single mirror—

They’re all filled with images of Zane and me. The images in the mirrors don’t shift. They don’t glitch or waver like a typical haunted house illusion. They’re still. Almost… too perfect.

It would be so easy to forget who he is.

But I know better.

I shake my head hard, trying to snap myself out of it. He’s a criminal. A goddamn criminal. No matter how good he looks, no matter how my stomach twists every time I see his face, he’s dangerous.

I need to get the hell out of here.

Turning on my heel, I storm out of the mirror room. The second I hit the open air, I yank off my stupid angel wings and chuck them straight into the nearest trash can.

I don’t even know why I’m so mad.

I just am.

Maybe it’s this whole haunted house. Maybe it’s the tricks and illusions. Maybe it’s the way my brain keeps trying to make me want something I absolutely should not fucking want.

Either way, I’m done.

I just need to get home.

I push through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit, but before I can reach it, someone steps into my path.

“The girl you were with,” a voice says. “She’s stuck in the Shadow Room.”

It’s the bartender. The one from earlier.

“She’s asking for help,” he adds, eyes flicking to mine like he’s waiting for a reaction.

And fuck do I react.

My stomach drops.

“Shit,” I mutter, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Where?”

He gestures toward a hallway to the left. I barely manage to thank him before I’m practically running in the direction he pointed.

The Shadow Room. What the fuck is a Shadow Room?

I don’t stop to question it. I just grab the handle of the heavy-ass door, yank it open, and step inside. The second it shuts behind me, I regret everything.

“Tria?” I call, my voice bouncing off the walls.

Nothing.

Suddenly, at least twenty blinking lights overhead flicker on and begin to move. I snap my head up, tracking their dizzying patterns, until all of them go out—except one.

A single spotlight burns in the center of the room, and when my gaze finally lands on what it’s illuminating, my foot slips. I catch myself before I can fall, but my heart pounds against my ribs, because holy shit .

Zane.

He’s sitting in a massive armchair, but that’s not what grabs my attention.

It’s the knife he’s holding.

The silver glints under the light and it’s resting so casually in his grip it’s like it belongs there.

Like it’s an extension of him.

His gaze lifts slowly and locks onto mine.

“You must be Faith .”