Page 29 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

My mind is clearer than it’s been in days.

Like I just walked through the gates of hell and came out the other side baptized in pain and pleasure.

My body, though—my body is giving up on me.

I grit my teeth against the pain that crashes into me the moment I move.

My muscles scream, my skin feels raw, my pussy throbs with the kind of overstimulation that borders on unbearable.

My legs almost give out, but I lock my knees before I can fucking collapse.

Slowly, I step away, dragging in a breath that does nothing to settle the fire inside me. My dress is on the floor, but I don’t have a choice. My fingers shake as I grab it, dragging it over my head.

The second the fabric drags over my skin, I bite back a gasp.

It feels like barbed wire against the bruises he has left on me. My nipples are so sensitive the friction alone makes me flinch.

I let out a slow breath and give him the nastiest look I can manage. “Had your fun? Or do you need to jerk off to the blood, too?”

His gaze darkens as he lifts the bottle again. His tongue flicks over the rim before he grins at me. “You want to watch?”

“You’re gross.”

I turn on my heel, ready to put as much space between us as possible, but I don’t make it two steps before his rough hand wraps around my wrist, jerking me back. My breath catches, and then I’m slammed against the window.

“What the—”

His hand leaves my wrist and fists in my hair, jerking my head back until my throat is bared to him.

“Are you done running your mouth, good girl?”

I open my mouth to snap something back, but before I can, his free hand is shoving up my dress. My thighs clench together, but he just presses closer, forcing them apart with his knee.

His fingers slip between my legs, dragging up my inner thigh. I jolt when I feel the fabric in his hand, feel the unmistakable brush of lace before he’s pressing it against my cunt. My panties.

My stomach drops. “You—”

He shoves them inside me.

I choke on a sound that’s part gasp, part moan.

“Can’t have them smelling you, can we?”

My nails bite into his forearm, but he doesn’t stop. The pressure of the fabric stretching me open makes my thighs tremble. My body reacts despite the sharp flare of anger in my chest.

Zane steps back and slides his fingers down my body one last time before he lets me go completely.

Then he turns and walks out, just like that.

I sag against the window as everything crashes into me all at once. The humiliation. The shame. The overwhelming heat still twisting in my belly. A sharp breath shudders from my lips, and I press my fingers to my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut.

I will not fucking cry.

I force myself to breathe, dragging in shaky gulps of air, pressing the back of my head against the window. The room is unnervingly still. Everything’s gone dark. The lights overhead are off. A low vibration hums through the silence, and my eyes snap to the only source of glow. A phone. My phone.

Confusion knots in my gut as I spot it sitting on the table in front of the armchair. My phone was supposed to be with Tria. I never had it when I came in here.

Tria.

I push off the window as I grab my phone. The screen lights up with her name—an incoming call. I can’t answer. My fingers are trembling too much anyway, and before I can even consider it, the call goes to voicemail.

Then I notice the twenty-four voicemails she’s left. I would have heard it earlier. There’s no way I wouldn’t have.

Unless…

I swallow hard, glancing toward the door Zane just walked out of.

That motherfucker must’ve had a jammer in here, blocking the signal. And he took it with him when he left. That’s why I’m just now getting the calls.

A sharp breath rushes past my lips.

I need to get out of here.

I take a step forward and nearly trip over my own damn heels.

Fuck these.

I yank them off, leaving them where they fall. I straighten, pushing my hair back from my face, blinking away the hot sting in my eyes. Then I square my shoulders and walk toward the door.

When I first walked in, this place was drowning in light.

Now, most of them are gone, leaving only a few flickering overhead.

Shadows bleed into every corner, making it hard to see, but I don’t mind.

It’s better this way. Less eyes to see the blood drying on my skin.

Less eyes to see how fucking wrecked I look.

“FAITH!”

Shit.

I whirl around just in time to see Tria storming toward me.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” she snaps. “I’ve been calling you for hours! What the hell is wrong with you?”

I open my mouth, trying to think of something, but my brain stalls.

Tria doesn’t wait. She gets closer, scanning me, taking in the blood, the mess of my dress, my bare feet.

Her expression softens in an instant. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“The fuck you are.”

I roll my eyes, praying she doesn’t notice how fucking off I sound. “Tria, I swear to God, if you start mothering me—”

“Don’t even try it,” she cuts me off, stepping even closer. Her voice softens, but not in a way that lets me breathe. It makes it worse. “What happened?”

I huff, like this whole thing is annoying instead of terrifying. “I ran into some assholes who got too handsy. I handled it.”

Her brows pinch. “You’re covered in blood.”

“It’s Halloween, Tria. Fake blood.” I flick my fingers against my arm like I’m brushing off dust. “Some dumbass thought it’d be funny to throw it on me.”

“Fake blood?”

“Yeah. Some overenthusiastic assholes, you know how it is.” I let out an exaggerated sigh. “People have no fucking boundaries.”

Tria studies me, and for a second, I think she’s about to call me out. But then she shakes her head, muttering, “Fucking weirdos.”

“So, what’s with the search party?”

Her expression shifts so fast it almost gives me whiplash. Her annoyance disappears, replaced with wide-eyed excitement.

“Bitch. The Shadow Room was fucking lit tonight.”

“Oh?” I say, keeping my tone light, but the blood drains from my face.

Tria doesn’t notice. She grabs my wrist, squeezing as she practically bounces on her heels.

“After all these years of the same old boring devil-tries-to-murder-innocent routine, tonight was different. It was like... a scary, erotic display.” She shivers dramatically. “Damn, it got me hot just watching it.”

I feel like I’m about to be sick.

“Did you… did you see it?”

“Of course, dumbo! Why do you think I was looking for you?” She grins, her eyes are practically glowing.

My stomach plummets.

Fuck. Fuck.

I shake my head quickly, stepping back. “Tria, it’s not what you think.”

But she’s already talking over me. “You should have seen it. The way the shadows moved? Holy fuck. The control. The way he held her.” She lets out a low whistle.

“I swear to God, at one point, I thought he was going to devour her. The way he had her against the window, the way she struggled but just let him.”

I stare at her.

She didn’t see us.

She saw the shadows.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sounds… intense.”

“So fucking intense,” she agrees, oblivious to the way my hands are shaking.

“I swear, that guy—whoever he was? He wasn’t just playing with her.

” She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice.

“He was claiming her. You could feel it. Like he wanted to ruin her for anyone else. God, it was so fucked up but so hot.”

I want to vomit.

Tria doesn’t notice how stiff I am. How my breaths are coming shorter. How my nails are digging so deep into my arms I’m close to breaking skin.

“I was going to go find the girl after, ask her how the fuck she got a man to fuck her like that.” She shakes her head with a laugh. “Whoever she is, she’s one lucky bitch.”

Lucky.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Fine,” Tria huffs. “But we’re talking about this more later.”

I don’t answer. I’m already walking ahead, needing to get out of there before my stomach turns inside out.

I don’t stop moving until I reach my dorm. My fingers fumble as I shove the key into the lock. The door swings open, and my body goes rigid.

My room is spotless. It was a goddamn mess when I left. Now? Everything is in perfect order. The faint scent of something rich and smoky lingers in the air, something distinctly him.

Zane.

I shut the door behind me. How the fuck did he even get in? My eyes flick to the window. The one I always leave slightly open. A stupid habit. One I should break.

But I don’t close it.

He’s not going to walk out of prison again.

Right?

I swallow hard and head toward the bathroom, but a large, neatly wrapped gift on my bed stops me in my tracks.

A bad feeling slithers up my spine.

Slowly, I approach. There’s a note resting on top. I pick it up, unfold it, and skim the words scrawled across the paper.

I don’t even realize I’ve crumpled the note in my fist until I force myself to let go. I rip off the wrapping, my breath catching the second I see what’s inside.

It’s a portrait of me.

I sink onto the edge of my bed, staring. I was so terrified earlier that it didn’t even register—how the hell did Zane know I was Faith?

But now, looking at this painting, there’s no denying it. He recognized me not because he had seen me before, but because I had existed in the quiet corners of his imagination, until I was no longer just a dream.

My fingers tremble as I run them over the canvas. He painted me. The details are so precise, so hauntingly beautiful, it makes my throat close up. Every brushstroke, every shade—it’s me. But it’s not just me. It’s how he sees me.

Something gleams in the painting, drawing my attention. It’s a pendant around my neck. My fingers instinctively reach for my own neck. The second I touch cool metal, my stomach drops.

No .

I yank my hand away, looking down. It’s there. The same pendant.

I hadn’t even noticed.

The chain is delicate but strong, the pendant itself is small but undeniably expensive. A hope diamond set in intricate platinum. The kind of jewelry that costs a small fortune. The kind that means something.

My fingers tighten around the pendant, like I could rip it off and throw it across the room. But I don’t.

Because some part of me—the part I want to drown—likes the way it feels against my skin.

For a split second, I let myself imagine a different reality.

One where this is sweet. Thoughtful. One where I could press my fingers to the pendant and feel warmth instead of dread. If Zane wasn’t in prison. If he wasn’t—

No.

I shut it down.

I might have appreciated this. Might have even considered it a heartfelt gesture.

But Zane is a dangerous man.

And I’m not a lucky girl.