Page 30 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE MONSTER

T he second I step out of the alley, the flashing lights are waiting for me.

I don’t stop walking.

I don’t need to.

Kyle’s already walking in my direction with that stiff, cop rhythm that annoys the hell out of me. I glance at him once, then crouch. My fingers find the tracker strapped to my ankle, and I rip it off.

Kyle’s hand drops to his holster.

“Relax,” I mutter, standing. “It’s not a gun.”

I toss the tracker up, high enough to make him flinch. He catches it anyway.

“I figured you’d wait a little longer,” I say casually. “Was hoping to get breakfast first.”

Kyle lets out a mocking laugh. “Funny, because I figured a man confessing to murder would have better plans than attending a Halloween party.”

“C’mon, Kyle,” I sigh, spreading my arms. “You know me. I’m sentimental.”

He steps in close and starts patting me down. His hands sweep over my sides, down my legs, and back up my waist.

“Yeah? And what was so fucking important about one night that you’d throw away your life for it?”

When he grabs my wrist, he doesn’t bother at the blood crusted across my palm, doesn’t flinch at the torn skin or the way it’s still weeping from where the glass dug in.

I smirk. “Do you care?”

Kyle barks out a laugh. “Fuck no.”

Of course not.

He doesn’t care why I did it, just that I did. Just that my confession puts him one step closer to his shiny new promotion.

Kyle straightens, slipping back into official cop mode. “Zane Valehart, you’re under arrest for the murder of—”

I roll my eyes as he yanks my wrists forward and snaps the cuffs on. “Are you at least going to buy me breakfast first?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He starts reciting the Miranda rights. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one—”

“I can.”

Kyle grins but still finishes reading them before gripping my arm and shoving me toward the cruiser. He’s unnecessarily rough about it, but I let him have his moment. He throws the door open and practically tosses me inside.

The second it slams shut, I breathe through my nose, leaning my head back against the seat.

I watch the world pass by through the smudged window. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve seen this many people outside the jumpsuits, outside the same fucking walls, day in and day out. The city looks different when you’re not locked up, but I don’t give a shit about any of it.

Because my mind keeps circling back to one thing. One girl.

Faith.

She left her fucking mark on me. Not just the scratches, not just the sting where her nails sank into my skin.

No, something deeper. Something festering.

I close my eyes, but she’s still there. The car hums beneath me, but I don’t feel it.

My body is still tuned to hers, still aching for the way she clenched, the way she fought, the way she fucking broke.

She thinks this is over. That I’ll disappear. She’s naive. I don’t lose things I want. I don’t let them slip away. And I fucking want her.

Hunger is a dull ache, a gnawing thing that willpower can suppress.

But thirst? Thirst consumes. It scratches at your throat, sears your insides, makes every thought about quenching it.

Faith doesn’t just make me thirsty—she makes me parched in a way no water could ever soothe. One drop of her, and I crave a flood.

The world loves to pretend there’s a line between good and evil.

I don’t just cross it—I fucking set it on fire.

Pain doesn’t hold me back, morality doesn’t restrain me.

There’s no conscience in me, no line I won’t cross.

There’s nothing redeemable about me. I don’t have a tragic backstory, or a secret heart of gold.

I’m not misunderstood. I’m exactly as fucking awful as I seem.

I flex my fingers. They still ache, still sting where blood and glass kissed my skin, but it’s a small price. I’d tear my own flesh open if it meant feeling her again.

“You’re lucky I’m the one bringing you in,” Kyle says, breaking through my thoughts.

I glance at him in the rearview mirror. “That so?”

“Yeah.” His grip tightens. “Because if it were anyone else, they’d be asking why the fuck you’re smiling.”

“Because I always win, Kyle,” I say flashing my teeth.

The weights feel like nothing in my hands.

I should be burning out, should be pushing myself to the edge of exhaustion, but I don’t feel shit. Not the strain, not the fatigue, not the release I fucking need.

My cock is still hard. Still. Hours later, and nothing has dulled the ache. The freezing shower didn’t help. Neither did the pull of iron in my grip, or the bruises blooming under my skin.

I tighten my grip on the bar as I push the barbell up.

Footsteps echo through the gym.

I don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mark mutters.

I press the weight upward before letting it drop onto the rack with a heavy clang. “Good to see you too.”

Mark crosses his arms, watching as I sit up. “You gave up your life for one night.”

I grab a towel, wiping the sweat from my neck. “And?”

“You don’t even know that woman—”

“My woman,” I cut in.

“Jesus, Zane. You do realize you could end up on death row for this, right?”

“I knew the consequences when I made the deal.”

Mark’s nostrils flare. “You don’t care.”

I let the towel drop onto the bench beside me and rest my elbows on my knees. “Is that why you’re here? To remind me how doomed I am?”

Mark shakes his head. “No.” His expression shifts, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “I’m here because I want you to teach me how to fight.”

That grabs my attention.

“You?”

Mark clenches his jaw. “Yeah. I need to be able to defend myself. I need to make sure no one lays hands on me again.”

I drag my tongue over my teeth, nodding slowly. “Alright, pretty boy.” I stand, rolling my neck until it pops. “You wanna learn how to throw a punch?”

“I want to make sure I never end up on the ground again.”

I chuckle, stepping into his space. “Fighting isn’t just about swinging your fists. It’s about knowing when to take a hit, when to roll with it, when to fucking break someone before they break you.”

Mark’s lips press into a thin line. “So teach me.”

I grin.

“Alright.” I crack my knuckles, the anticipation making my blood hum. “Hit me.”

Mark hesitates.

I smirk. “C’mon, Mark. You want to fight? Throw a fucking punch.”

His jaw tightens, then he swings.

It’s sloppy. Predictable. I see it coming a mile away. I shift, dodging easily, and before he can react, I grab his wrist and twist, forcing him off balance.

He stumbles, cursing, and I let go, letting him catch himself before he eats the floor.

“Not bad,” I murmur, tilting my head. “If your goal was to slap a fly.”

Mark glares at me, rubbing his wrist. “Then show me how to do it right.”

I shake out my wrists, rolling my shoulders before jerking my chin toward the equipment. “Alright, since your punches are shit, let’s start with the basics. Get on the bench.”

Mark hesitates before stepping forward, glancing at the barbell already racked with plates. I watch the way his throat bobs, the slight tension in his stance. He’s not weak, but he’s also not built for this.

“Think you can handle it, pretty boy?” I tease, smirking.

He glares at me before lowering himself onto the bench. His hands grip the bar, adjusting.

“Good. Now unrack it and bring it down slow. Control is everything. You let that fucker drop too fast, and it’ll crush your ribs.”

Mark exhales sharply and lifts the bar off the rack. It wobbles slightly in his grip before he starts to lower it. His arms strain, his muscles tensing under the weight, and I can already see that he’s struggling.

The bar dips too fast.

I reach out, gripping it before it crushes him, guiding it back up with ease. “Yeah, thought so.”

Mark huffs, glaring at the ceiling. “Fuck off.”

I leave my grip on the bar. “Nah, see, this is part of the lesson. Strength isn’t just about power, it’s about knowing your limits. And right now, your limits say you should be pressing something lighter.”

He grits his teeth, pushing against the bar with all he’s got. I let him struggle for a few more seconds before I take over. I grab the bar with one hand, and Mark looks at me like I might just drop the damn thing on him.

“Relax, pretty boy,” I mutter. “I’ve got it. Now, hands here—” I adjust his grip, making sure his fingers aren’t in a position to snap under pressure.

His shoulders are tight, but I keep my hand steady on it, supporting most of the weight.

“So, what got you in here?”

His eyes flick to me, then back to the ceiling. His arms tremble slightly under the weight. “I killed a man.”

“No shit. Thought you were in here for tax fraud.”

His lips press together, but after a second, he exhales. “He raped my girlfriend.”

I nod, keeping my hand firm on the bar, letting him breathe through it. “Is that so?”

Mark swallows. “Yeah. I didn’t even think about it. Just saw him and I fucking lost it.”

I hum, watching the way his grip tightens. “You beat him to death?”

His jaw clenches. “Crowbar.”

Interesting.

“And looks like your girl didn’t appreciate it, considering she hasn’t called you ever since you got here.”

Mark’s breath stutters, just for a second, but I catch it.

“She was forced.” He stares up at the ceiling. “They made her take the stand against me.”

I snort. “Right. That’s what she told you?”

Mark’s fingers flex against the bar, his knuckles whitening. “She didn’t have a choice .”

I tilt my head, pretending to think. “I don’t know, pretty boy. Women tend to do what they want when they care enough. If she actually loved you, maybe she would’ve—oh, I don’t know—not testified against you in a murder case.”

Mark’s nostrils flare. “She was forced.”

“You keep saying that like it means something. Funny how the world works, huh? You kill a guy for her, threw your whole fucking life away, and she gets to walk free while you rot in a cage.”

Mark grits his teeth. “She didn’t want this.”

“Sure about that? Maybe she isn’t as innocent as you think.”

Mark’s eyes snap to mine. “She wasn’t fucking around on me,” he bites out. “Don’t insinuate that.”

I lift my hands, feigning innocence. “Relax, pretty boy. Just saying, she moved on real fucking quick for someone who ‘didn’t have a choice.’”

Mark’s nostrils flare, his grip on the bar turning white-knuckled.

“Maybe she’s with someone else now,” I muse. “Maybe she was already fucking someone else before you even—”

That’s what does it.

Mark presses the bar up—easily this time—and slams it back onto the rack before sitting up fast. Before I even blink, he spins on me and his fist flies.

It’s fast. Much better than his last attempt.

But I’m faster.

I see it coming, shifting just in time to block it. His knuckles glance off my forearm, but there’s real force behind it this time.

“See? Told you strength comes from what drives you.”

“You’re a jerk,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I chuckle and toss him a bottle of water. He snatches the bottle from the air, twisting the cap off before taking a long swig. After a second, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and eyes me. “How are you so good at this?”

I lean against the bench, running my tongue over my teeth. “I once had a mentor too.”

Terry.

The man who took the reckless, angry kid I was and shaped me into something sharper. Stronger. He taught me how to fight, not just to throw punches, but to make every single one count. He taught me how to read a person’s body, how to see the move before they even thought to make it.

He taught me how to win.

Mark tilts his head. “Where is he now?”

I hold his gaze for a second before pushing off the bench.

“Dead.”

I don’t wait for his reaction. I just turn and walk out.