Page 27 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

If he’s going to rip me apart, strip me of whatever dignity I have left, I’m sure as fuck not going to make it easy for him. He can drag me. He can fucking fight for it.

“If you stand up,” he coaxes, offering me kindness, “I’ll be nice to you. For five minutes.”

That gets my attention.

Five minutes.

Five fucking minutes where I can breathe, where I can think, where I can figure out what the fuck to do next.

I hate myself for even considering it. But I force my legs to work, pushing myself up off the floor. My throat burns from where his fingers dug into it, but I stay standing.

“Turn around,” he says softly, “and face the window.”

Window?

I didn’t even know there was a window in here. But when I finally turn, I see it. A floor-to-ceiling pane of glass lined with a black film. I must’ve missed, either from the panic or the shadows swallowing this room whole. It stretches taller than I could reach, wider than a hospital bed.

The lights overhead flicker again, our silhouettes dance across the glass. His image overlaps mine, consuming it in pieces.

“Good girl,” he purrs, taking a lazy step toward me. His eyes drift down my body making my skin crawl.

“Now,” he says softly, “take your dress off.”

“No.” My voice is sharp, steady. “You’re not going to touch me.”

“If you don’t, I’ll forget about being nice, and rip that pretty little dress right off you. And when I’m done? You’ll be walking out of here naked.”

Fuck you , I want to say. But the words die in my throat when he closes the distance and slides his hand around from behind, slipping his fingers into the dip between my breasts.

“Okay!” I choke out, my hands flying up in surrender. “I’ll—I’m taking it off.”

He steps back, and I curse myself as I reach for the hem of my dress. I drag the fabric up, over my head, forcing my face to stay blank as I let it drop to the floor.

I’m cursing myself a second time when I remember, I’m not wearing any underwear.

Zane takes his time looking at me. It’s not just looking —it’s owning , like he’s already decided I belong to him. His eyes linger on the curve of my waist, the swell of my chest, the bare stretch of my thighs. I feel like I’m being dissected.

I can’t stand it.

My arms move on their own, instinctively wrapping around my chest, trying to shield myself from his eyes. But before I can fully close myself off, his hand shoots out, brushing my arms away.

“Don’t.” His fingers trail along the line of my shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”

I bite down on the panic. “You must be blind,” I spit, glaring at the floor because I can’t look at him. “Or just that fucking desperate.”

His fingers find my waist, tracing gentle lines up my ribs, across my stomach, like he’s handling something fragile.

“And just like that,” he whispers, “I want to gouge their fucking eyes out. Line them up in a perfect circle. Make sure every last one is staring straight at you. So they never forget the goddess they once dared to insult.”

I don’t know what the fuck I expected him to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.

For a second—just one stupid, reckless second—I dare to look at him.

And the way he’s looking at me?

No one’s ever looked at me like that.

There’s no mockery in his expression, no cruelty, just this dark, intense hunger that makes my stomach twist.

It’s wrong.

He’s wrong.

But that look makes me forget how scared I am. Makes me forget how much I fucking hate him.

And that’s what scares me the most.

His eyes drop, zeroing in on my lips, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s going to kiss me. The thought makes bile rise in my throat. But then, just as suddenly, he lets go and steps back.

Without a word, he turns around and strolls over to the armchair in the middle of the room. The sudden space between us gives me room to think.

I turn around and dart my gaze around the room, scanning for something. A weapon, an opening, a way out. My eyes land on the knife on the floor. My fingers itch for it, but if I bend down now, he’ll know. He’ll see right through me.

My thoughts scatter when he heads in my direction, holding a wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, like this is some fucked-up date and we’re about to toast to… what? My humiliation? My destruction?

He walks toward me, like he’s not holding me hostage.

I could use that bottle. Smash it against his head. Drive a shard of glass into his eye. Blind him, at least for a few seconds, enough time to run.

He stops a few feet away, watching me.

“I got you some wine.”

I force my face to relax, keeping my expression neutral. If he suspects I’m plotting something, this chance will be gone.

So I play along.

I let my voice slip into something softer. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Zane chuckles. “Do I need to?”

The arrogance in his tone makes my skin crawl. But I smile anyway. Just a small one. Just enough to make him believe I’m breaking.

He uncorks the bottle, tilting it over the glass.

“I like drinking straight from the bottle,” I say, reaching out before he can pour.

His hand stills.

His eyes flick up to mine, trying to read me. I keep my expression smooth, my lips curling just slightly, like I’m inviting him into my head instead of blocking him out.

For a second, he hesitates.

Then he smirks.

“Be my guest,” he says, handing me the bottle.

My fingers brush the glass, but before I can close them around the neck of the bottle, he pulls it away like he never intended to give it to me in the first place.

I don’t react.

Not on the surface.

Zane watches me for a beat longer than necessary, then he moves, sliding his hand behind my nape. His fingers thread into my hair. I don’t move away. That would be stupid.

His thumb grazes the sensitive skin at the base of my skull, sending a shiver down my spine. I hate that he feels it. Then the bottle is at my lips. He tilts the glass just enough for the liquid to skim the edge.

I don’t open my mouth.

What if it’s poisoned?

It’s not impossible. It’s not even unlikely. It would be a simple thing for him, a few drops of something tasteless swirling into the deep red liquid. Maybe he doesn’t even need poison. Maybe the wine itself is the trap, so I keep my lips pressed together.

Zane sighs, and his fingers tighten in my hair. Pain bursts along my scalp as he yanks hard, forcing my head back against his grip. A small gasp slips out before I can stop it, and that’s all he needs.

The second my mouth parts, he inclines the bottle. The first mouthful floods past my lips. I choke, my throat working against the sudden onslaught of liquid. The glass kisses my teeth, pressing harder, tipping further.

Wine spills down my chin, trailing over my throat in deep red rivulets. My lashes flutter as my body fights between swallowing and suffocating.

Zane’s fingers don’t loosen.

“Five minutes of me being nice are over,” he drawls against my ear.

A sharp shudder rolls down my spine.

The bottle arcs faster, pouring relentlessly past my lips, my tongue, down my throat. I cough against the force of it. My stomach revolts at the sheer amount of it. Then, just as my vision swims, I hear a sharp, splintering sound.

My gaze flicks to his hand just in time to see a thin fracture spiderweb across the bottle in his grip. It’s not through and through, but it’s enough to send a spike of terror through my chest.

Then, finally, he pulls the bottle away.

Wine spills from my lips as I collapse against him, and his thumb swipes across my lower lip, smearing the wine. “Messy,” he muses.

I want to hit him. I want to claw his eyes out. But before I can even move, he spins me around, forcing me to face the window.

Zane hums, dragging the cracked bottle along my jaw, tilting it ever so slightly so more of the wine spills down my neck. It’s warm now, mixed with the heat of his palm, and it slithers between my tits.

I flinch hard as the bottle skims along my collarbone. The glass is still intact, but my body already feels the cracks. I can sense the sharp edges waiting to tear me apart.

Zane chuckles darkly, his lips brushing against my temple. “You’re acting like I’m going to break it.”

I swallow thickly, my pulse hammering. “Aren’t you?”

He tsks, shaking his head. A sharp inhale rattles in my chest as he drags the bottle lower, following the path of the spilled wine.

“I was only going to admire you,” he murmurs, tracing the rim around one stiffened nipple before moving lower. Wine follows his path, the scent of it clinging to my skin, mixing with my sweat. “Drink a little with you.”

He leans in, his breath hot against my neck. “You smell fucking divine.”

I don’t get a chance to respond before his teeth sink into my throat.

A sharp cry leaves me as he bites down hard enough to bruise. The sting spreads, but before I can even process it, his tongue drags over the mark, soothing the pain only to sink his teeth in again.

He works his way down, biting deep.

My neck.

The curve of my shoulder.

The swell of my tits.

Every mark burns, a delicious ache that makes my head spin.

His free hand moves lower, the fingers of his bruising grip pressing into my stomach. He drags his nails across my skin, hard enough to leave angry red trails.

I should fight.

I should tell him to fuck off, to let me go.

But when the bottle follows the same path as his fingers, tracing my ribs, my stomach, my pelvis, I freeze. Zane chuckles darkly, teeth grazing the underside of my breast before he sucks my nipple between his lips, his tongue lapping up the wine.

“You taste even better,” he murmurs against me.

I hate how much I arch into it. How much my body begs for it.

His hand slides lower, forcing my thighs apart, and the bottle follows.

My breath shatters as Zane taps the mouth of the bottle against my pussy, right against my clit, sending a sharp jolt of sensation through me. My whole body locks up.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Zane—”