Page 31 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE BEAUTY

I wake up to the same thing.

No messages. No calls. Nothing.

It’s been a week since I last heard from Zane. A week since he reached out or since I did, if I could even say I wanted to. I glance at my phone, but the screen is as empty as it was yesterday. And the day before that.

I let out a slow breath, dropping the phone onto my nightstand before dragging my gaze downward. My body is barely covered by an oversized t-shirt. That’s all I’ve worn for the past week.

Because wearing anything else hurts.

It burns.

Even the softest fabric feels wrong, scraping over bruises, pressing into them.

The hickeys he gave me trail down my neck, spread across my chest, deep enough that I feel every single one when I move.

And I fucking hate it, because I should be healing, should be fine by now, but every time I brush my fingers over them, I can still feel his mouth on me.

I shift slightly, and a dull ache flares between my legs. It’s not sharp, not unbearable, just a lingering soreness that shouldn’t still be there.

Just a little sore.

That’s what the gynecologist had said.

Yeah, I had forced myself out of bed the next morning, dragging my aching body to a gynecologist. It had taken everything in me to walk in there, to sit in that sterile, white-ass room, staring at the posters about safe sex and healthy relationships while knowing I had nothing safe or healthy inside me.

But to my surprise? I was fine. Sore, yeah, but fine.

I wanted to laugh.

No tearing. No damage. Just a little sore.

Like I hadn’t had a broken fucking bottle inside me.

Like I hadn’t spent half the night waiting for it to shatter.

She gave me that same nasty look. Three times. Weren’t gynecologists supposed to be open to anything? But I guess even they had a limit. Even they had a threshold for what was considered normal levels of fucked up.

I didn’t ask any more questions. I just pulled my clothes back on and walked out.

And when I got home, when I peeled the layers off my skin, that’s when I saw how much worse it really was. But you know what’s worse than the bruises? The way I talk to myself. The way my own mind turns on me

You should be over this by now.

I let out a sharp breath. “Over what?”

Over him. Over what he did to you. It’s been a week, and you’re still lying in bed like some lost little girl waiting for a text that isn’t coming.

I tighten my grip on the blanket. “I’m not waiting for him.”

Then why do you keep checking your phone?

My jaw clenches. “I don’t.”

Liar.

I push myself up onto my elbows. My sheets slide down, exposing more of my bare skin. I glance down, fingers brushing over one of the bite marks just above my breast.

I should hate them. Hate him . Hate everything about what happened.

Instead, I shudder.

See? You liked it.

I snap upright, gripping the edge of the mattress. “No. I didn’t .”

You could’ve fought harder.

I breathe in sharply. “I did fight.”

Not enough. He played with you. He tested you. And you let him.

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “I didn’t have a fucking choice .”

That’s what you keep telling yourself.

I swallow the lump in my throat and force my voice to steady. “He could’ve killed me.”

He didn’t. And tell me, if you really didn’t want it, why the fuck did you come?

My stomach knots, shame curling hot in my gut.

“He forced my body to react,” I whisper, but it sounds like an excuse.

Bullshit. You came apart for him. You screamed his name. You let him mark you, and you’re still sitting here, replaying every second like you want it to happen again.

I press a hand against my mouth.

I need to get out of this room. I push myself up, wincing at the soreness in my muscles. The moment I take a step, my reflection catches my eye in the mirror across the room.

The bruises along my throat. The faint marks along my ribs. The ghosts of his teeth, his hands, his fucking ownership imprinted all over me.

It should make me sick.

It doesn’t.

Report him.

I go still.

You need to. You have to.

I shake my head. “I can’t .”

Because you’ll get caught?

I don’t answer.

Because you impersonated someone? Lied to get him to talk to you?

I stare at myself in the mirror.

Or maybe it’s because you don’t want to report him.

My hands tremble at my sides. “That’s not—”

He took something from you. And you’re still hoping he’ll come back for more.

I suck in a sharp breath, nails digging into my palms.

“No.” I say it aloud, firm, cutting through the war inside my own head. “No. I don’t want that.”

Thankfully, my phone rings, shattering the sounds in my head. My fingers fumble as I grab it off the nightstand.

Tria.

I had to lie to Tria.

I never lie to Tria.

But what the fuck was I supposed to say? Hey, I let a psychopath fuck me with a broken bottle, and now I think I might actually want to do it again?

Yeah. No.

Lying to Tria is damn near impossible, but I had to. She would’ve forced me to talk, forced me to report it.

So I told her I had some contagious flu. That I couldn’t leave my apartment, couldn’t see anyone. I made it sound bad enough to keep her away but not bad enough to make her show up at my doorstep with soup and concern.

I let the call go to voicemail, tossing my phone onto the bed.

My phone pings again.

I’m seeing you today. In fact, I’m outside your door right now.

My stomach drops.

And I don’t give a fuck about your germs. We’ll be sick together.

Open the door, or I’m using the key.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving away from the mirror.

I look down at my oversized t-shirt, at my bare legs, and curse again. Not good enough.

I grab the bathrobe from the chair, yanking it on and tying it tight around my waist. My hair’s a mess, tangled from too much sleep and too many restless nights, but I run my fingers through it, letting it fall around my face.

Good. It covers the worst of the bruises on my neck.

I barely make it to the door before it swings open, and suddenly, Tria is practically throwing herself into my arms.

For a second, I don’t react because I don’t deserve this.

But then her warmth seeps in, her arms squeezing tight around me, and something inside me cracks. I force myself to return the hug. It’s too much.

I almost want to cry.

But I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll have to explain.

And I don’t even know how to explain something I don’t understand.

She pulls back just enough to look at me. “Jesus, Faith, you look like shit.”

I huff out a laugh, the sound hollow. “Yeah, well, contagious flu does that to you.”

Her eyes narrow, sharp and assessing. “Mmm.”

Fuck.

She walks past me, heading straight for my bed. She settles onto the mattress, crossing her legs before pinning me with a look. “So, how are you feeling?”

I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “Much better now that you’re here.”

Her lips purse. “Babe, you kept me at arm’s length all week.”

I sit down beside her, forcing a smirk. “Didn’t want you catching germs.”

“Right. Because that’s ever stopped me before.” She rolls her eyes, then reaches into her bag. “Whatever. I got us some wine.”

She pulls out a bottle, wiggling it in front of me. The second I see the wine bottle, my stomach clenches.

Not in fear. Not just in fear.

I rip my gaze away. “Put it away.”

Tria stops mid-motion, her brows pulling together. “What?”

“Just put it away, okay?”

Her jaw drops. “You really are sick.” She leans forward, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead. “No fever, but maybe this is one of those spiritual illnesses. Faith, you’ve never said no to wine before.”

And that’s when it hits me.

I’m giving that son of a bitch way too much power over me.

I never say no to wine.

Why the fuck should I start now?

I snatch the bottle from Tria’s hands, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. “You’re right,” I say, bringing it to my lips. “I never say no to wine.”

The first sip burns in a way it never has before, but I force myself to swallow it down, ignoring the way my stomach clenches.

Tria grins. “That’s my girl.” She grabs a glass for herself, pouring while stretching out on my bed. “So,” she says, kicking off her shoes, “have you even started that project?”

“What project?”

She levels me with a look. “Faith.”

“What?” I frown, pouring the wine into her glass.

“Criminal Behavior assignment?” she reminds me, raising a brow.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not due for another three months.”

“Yeah, well, Dr. Harrington says the board moved the submission date up. There’s nothing we can do.”

“What do you mean moved up ?”

“I mean it’s due soon. Like, in a few weeks.”

Fuck.

I haven’t even scratched the surface of that assignment. I was supposed to be researching, preparing, setting up my analysis. And now? Now I can’t even bring myself to think about it, because doing the assignment means confronting Zane again. And I don’t want to.

Tria watches me carefully. “I talked to Harrington,” she says quietly. “Told him you were sick, asked if he could extend it for you.”

My throat tightens. “And?”

“He gave you an extra week.” She lifts her glass to her lips, speaking around the rim. “But after that, it’s out of his hands.”

I swallow, staring into my wine. The deep red liquid shifts when I tilt the bottle, and for a second, my mind goes somewhere else.

I set the bottle down so hard some of the wine spills over the edge.

“I can’t do this assignment.”

Tria sighs, setting her glass down. “Look, I know you’re behind, but I can help. We can go through everything together, break it down—”

“No,” I say too quickly.

She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “Faith, you don’t have time to be stubborn.”

I know.

If this were any other situation, I might have taken her up on it. Might have let her help me pull something together in record time. But I can’t because this is my mess.

Tria leaves an hour later. She hugs me before she goes, and for a second, I want to tell her everything. I want to let it pour out of me, want her to fix me, but I don’t.

Instead, I wait for her to be completely out of sight before I grab my phone and dial the number I shouldn’t be calling.

The petitionary.

The line rings twice before a voice filters through the speaker.

“Veridian State Penitentiary, how can I direct your call?”

“I need to schedule a video visit with an inmate. Zane Valehart.”

There’s a pause. I hear the receptionist clicking through something on her computer. “Are you his lawyer?”

The last time when I called, there was no lawyer listed for him. I could say no. I should say no. But my lips part before my thoughts can catch up, and instead of doing the right thing, I commit another crime.

“Yes,” I lie smoothly. “I’m his lawyer.”

“Alright. I’ll need to verify a few details before scheduling the call.”

“Go ahead.”

“Alright. I’ll need your full name and bar number for verification.”

Fuck.

I don’t have those. I never took the bar, never got any kind of legal certification.

If I answer, I’ll get caught, and I won’t just be committing a crime, I’ll be committing a felony.

My thumb moves to disconnect the call, but before I can, my phone pings and the screen lights up with a new message.

Unknown Number: Faith Collins. Bar #917428.

My lips move on their own, mouthing the words in the text.

What the fuck?

This isn’t a coincidence. Someone knew I’d be calling, knew exactly when I’d need this information. And the worst part? There’s only one person twisted enough to orchestrate something like this.

“Confirmed.”

Confirmed what?

“Scheduling the video meet for tomorrow at six p.m. One hour slot. You’ll receive a private link. Please log in five minutes early. If the call drops, it can’t be rescheduled for at least seven business days.”

Oh my god. I’m so fucking stupid. I opened my mouth when I shouldn’t have, and kept it shut when I should’ve.

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean—”

I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

I didn’t even think I said it.

I never would’ve made myself complicit in a federal crime. Never would’ve tethered my name to this. Not willingly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the receptionist interrupts. “Do you want me to schedule the meet or not?”

I stare at the screen as blood roars in my ears. I could say no, but this is my one shot at confronting Zane. So I say, “Yes.”