Page 4 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

I stop mid-step, amusement tugging at my lips as I lean lazily against the table.

“Ah, Alfred VonKrauss. The great architect of society’s punishment.

The man who turned stone and steel into a monument of justice.

” I tap the edge of the tray, my smirk growing sharper.

“And here I am, his grandson, enjoying room service. Poetic, isn’t it? ”

“He did more than just build it, Zane. He laid the groundwork for reform. For second chances.”

“It’s still a cage, Kyle. Doesn’t matter whose name is on the blueprints or whose blood runs in my veins. A cell is a cell. And the great Alfred VonKrauss can’t polish these bars enough to make them anything more.”

“You talk a big game for someone locked behind bars. Maybe that blood of yours gives you some leeway, but don’t think for a second you’re untouchable.”

I laugh as I pluck a piece of toast from the tray. “Untouchable? Kyle, I’ve been touched more times than I can count. By lawyers, judges, cops… oh, and your wife.”

His face freezes, like I’ve driven a nail straight into his skull. I take a deliberate bite of the toast, chewing slowly, savoring his reaction as much as the food.

“Now, what was her name again?” I pretend to think, even though I don’t give a fuck. “Lila? Yeah, that was it. She was a sweet little thing. Bit too eager, though. Almost like she had something to prove.”

“Shut your mouth,” he growls, stepping closer.

I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t get mad at me, man. I didn’t make her come to me. She came on her own.” I smirk, twisting the knife just a little deeper. “And then again. And again. You get the picture.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He knows. Everyone here does. I’ve got the guards in my pocket, the inmates under my thumb, and the warden? Well, let’s just say she’s not as supreme as she likes to think.

“You should really eat,” he mutters something under his breath before turning away, and the door clanks shut behind him.

I toss the toast back onto the tray and return to the window. The yard is the same as it’s always been. A fight breaks out near the weight racks. Two guys are swinging at each other like their lives depend on it. The crowd forms instantly like a mass of bodies hungry for violence.

Amateurs.

A whistle blows, and the guards rush in, pulling the combatants apart and dragging them off. The crowd disperses as quickly as it formed, everyone retreating to their corners like nothing happened. Order restored, chaos tucked neatly away.

I tap my fingers against the glass, watching as the yard settles back into its usual rhythm. Out there, they think they’re fighting for survival. In here, survival is knowing when to fight and when to let everyone else do the dirty work.

This place doesn’t bother me. It never has. Power isn’t about where you are; it’s about who you are. And me? I’ve got more power in here than most people do out there.

The sky is clear today, a pale blue stretching endlessly above the razor wire. I could almost call it beautiful, if I cared about that sort of thing. But beauty’s just another lie people tell themselves to make the ugliness bearable.

I lean my forehead against the glass one last time, letting the chill seep into my skin before I head toward the common area, keeping my pacunrushed. There’s no point hurrying. Time bends in here, stretches out until it’s meaningless.

Passing the cells, I keep my head high and let my eyes skim over the inhabitants. Most of them drop their eyes and pretend to be busy, whether it’s cleaning, reading, or simply staring at the walls, but one person doesn’t.

Cell 316.

Poor kid. He’s got that look in his eyes, as if he’s still waiting for someone to tell him this is just a bad dream. He’s trying so damn hard not to look away, holding my gaze like eye contact is his only shot at survival.

I don’t blink. I don’t slow down. My gaze hooks onto his, steady as a fucking metronome. His face tightens for a split second before he finally breaks, turning his head so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap.

The common area’s half full, the usual crowd is spread out across tables, couches, and corners. I grab a random book off the shelf and head for the farthest table. The one no one dares to sit at unless they’ve got a death wish or something to prove.

I drop into the chair, stretching my legs out and flipping the book open. Doesn’t matter what’s inside; I’m not here for the plot. The act of reading’s enough to make people think twice about approaching.

My skin tightens before my mind does. The air’s heavier, and someone’s standing where they shouldn’t be.

Without lifting my head, I snap my eyes up.

The kid.

He freezes mid-motion with one hand reaching for the chair across from me while the other hangs uselessly at his side. His lips part like he’s about to speak, but no sound comes out. The poor bastard looks as though he’s been caught sneaking into the lion’s den with a steak tied around his neck.

I lean back, letting my eyes rake over him.

Up close, he looks even younger than I thought—maybe eighteen, nineteen tops.

His muscles strain against his prison-issue shirt, but they’re all show.

He doesn’t know how to stand, how to move, how to carry himself.

All that bulk, and he’s just a scared little boy playing at being a man.

“You lost, kid?”

He swallows hard, the movement of his throat drawing attention as his Adam’s apple shifts with the effort. “I, uh…”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Sit.”

He drops into the chair so fast you’d think his knees gave out.

The kid doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

They hover between the edge of the table and his lap, fidgeting like they’re waiting for instructions from a brain that’s taken the day off.

I let him stew in his awkward silence, flipping a page in the book without reading a single word. It’s fun to watch him squirm.

“You gonna sit there all day, or are you going to tell me why you’re here?” I ask, dragging my gaze up from the page.

“I—uh—” He clears his throat like it’ll somehow fix the squeak in his voice. “My name’s Marcus. But, uh… people call me Mark.”

I close the book with a snap, leaning forward on the table. The movement makes him flinch, and I bite back a smirk.

“Well, Mario, here’s a little advice. You don’t sit at my table unless you’ve got something to say. So, what the fuck do you want?”

“I just…” He hesitates. “I just wanted to know how things work around here.”

I laugh. It’s not a friendly sound. “You mean, no one gave you the grand orientation tour when you got dropped into this shithole?”

“No, I just thought—”

“There’s your first mistake,” I cut him off. “Thinking. That doesn’t get you far in here, kid. Survival’s about instinct, not brainpower. Unless you’re planning to outsmart someone bigger and meaner than you, which”—I gesture at his hulking frame—” I doubt you’ve got the skills for.”

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

“No?” I smirk. “Then why the fuck are you sitting here asking me how to survive? You’ve got enough muscle to scare off half the yard, and yet here you are, looking like a kicked puppy. You’re practically begging for someone to shove a shank between your ribs.”

“I’m trying to figure it out,” he snaps. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Learn how things work?”

“Sure, if you’re planning to live long enough for it to matter. But here’s the thing, Mason. Nobody’s going to hold your hand. You either keep your head down and stay the fuck out of the way, or you pick a side and hope you picked right. Everything else is just noise.”

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a loud screech. For a moment, I think he might try to take a swing at me, and I almost hope he does. But before he can say anything, another voice cuts through the room.

“Yo!”

I glance over my shoulder as a wiry guy with a face like a rat and a permanent sneer saunters into the room.

The name doesn’t come to me right away. I know I’ve seen him before, but what the fuck was his name?

Tony? No, too Italian for this guy. Travis?

Nah. Todd? Hell, no. Fuck it. I decide on Trent.

He looks like a Trent. Anyway, he’s out of breath and his shirt is stained with something that looks suspiciously like blood.

“Jared’s dead,” Trent—or Not-Trent—announces.

“Who the fuck is Jared?” A bigger guy calls out from a table near the center.

Trent doesn’t answer right away, instead throws himself into the nearest chair. A guy sitting across from him answers in his place.

“The creep with the bad skin. The one who was always hacking up a lung and looked like one sneeze would shatter him into pieces?”

The big guy frowns. “The one with the lesions? Shit, wasn’t he contagious?”

“Relax,” Trent says with a laugh. “Doc said it wasn’t airborne or some shit. But yeah, the dude had something nasty as his skin was peeling off like old paint, and his eyes? Fuck, they were bloodshot as hell. He looked like a goddamn zombie.”

“Wait,” another inmate pipes up from across the room. “Wasn’t that the guy tagging along with Zane?”

All eyes turn to me.

Mark’s gaze is the heaviest. His eyes are a mix of confusion and… was that fear? Cute.

I lean back in my chair, letting the weight of the stares wash over me like a warm breeze.

“Want a tour, kid?”