Page 45 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE MONSTER

T he prison gates stand tall before me as if they could ever contain me.

The guards barely glance at me as they let me through, treating me like just another criminal returning home, but I know better. While they may think bars can hold me, they don’t know the first fucking thing about what I am.

Faith had learned that the hard way.

My cock still aches as my fingers trace the memory of her skin. She’s still on my tongue, in my head, and beneath my nails.

Last night, I ruined her and I have never felt more alive.

My jaw tenses as flashes of her body invade me. She looked so fucked-out and wrecked that even when I pulled away, her body still wanted me.

I saw it.

Felt it.

The fear and rage fueled the desperate war inside her because even as she hated me, she hated herself more for the way she responded. And that’s what I love about her. She’s not weak, not some mindless, compliant little doll who folds the second she’s pushed.

She fights.

She bites.

She fucking burns.

I run my tongue over my teeth, tasting the lingering remnants of her on my lips as my cock jerks against my zipper, still hard from the memory of her pussy shaking beneath my tongue.

I shouldn’t be this fucking wired.

I should be sated, drained, but instead, I could go ten more rounds and still come out starving.

Because it wasn’t enough.

It’s never fucking enough.

I should have touched her.

Should have shoved my cock inside that trembling, ruined pussy just to see how far she’d fall, how deep she’d drown before she started begging.

But I didn’t.

Because I want her to beg for it herself.

I want to witness it in real-time—the moment her hatred turns into addiction, the instant she stops pretending she isn’t just as fucking twisted as I am.

The moment she realizes she was always meant to belong to me.

I step into the yard and barely take three steps before a shoulder slams into mine.

My jaw tenses, my muscles coil, but I let it go. Because if I start something now, I won’t stop. And I’m not in the mood to deal with insects when there’s only one thing in my head.

“You getting soft, Zane?”

That gets my attention and slowly, I turn my head to find Frank staring at me.

The slimy little fuck stands with two cronies flanking him, the kind of men who wouldn’t last five minutes alone but act untouchable when they have the advantage of three against one.

Frank grins, flashing his yellowed teeth as he lazily gestures in my direction. “Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. Thought you’d still be recovering, y’know. After all, hospital beds get real comfortable after a while, don’t they?”

His two lackeys snicker, darting their eyes between us as if this is nothing more than a fucking joke.

“What was that?”

Frank takes a step closer, riding on the false bravado of thinking numbers matter.

“I said,” he drawls, still grinning like he isn’t already dead and just doesn’t know it yet, “you getting weak? Cuz last I heard, the big bad Zane got himself fucked up bad enough to be wheeled into a hospital. You fall off your throne, sweetheart?”

The second that word leaves his mouth my fist slams into his gut. He stumbles back with a choked gasp, doubling over as his face contorts in shock.

His goons react too late, I’m already on him.

I grab the back of his balding head, yank him forward and slam his face into my knee. Blood spurts instantly and a wet, broken sound tears from his throat as his nose explodes against bone.

He howls as his hands fly to his face, but I don’t give a fuck. I twist his head to the side, forcing him to look at me through his bloodied, watering eyes.

The two fuckers beside him step toward me, but I shoot them a look that is both a promise and a warning, an open invitation to die, and they hesitate.

Good choice.

“Let me teach you something, Frankie.” Frank tries to spit, but all he manages is a thick glob of blood and saliva pooling down his chin. “Weak men run their mouths. Strong men shut them up.”

His eyes dart frantically, searching for an escape.

There isn’t one.

I tighten my grip and bring my lips closer to his ear.

“Tell me.” I press my free hand just above his gut, sinking into the soft flesh. “How do you think you’d die? You ever think about that?”

A tremor racks through his frame.

“You should. I think about it a lot.” I press harder, and he lets out a high-pitched, animalistic sound as his body locks up, paralyzed by his own fear.

His goons are still frozen, watching in horrified silence.

I shove him back and watch as he stumbles, catching himself against the bench while his breath turns into a ragged mess.

His cronies don’t move. Nobody does. The whole yard watches in heavy silence as Frank coughs, blood dripping down his face and staining his teeth but he doesn’t make a sound. I turn my back on him without hesitation, because he’s not worth my time.

The kitchen smells like grease and steel, the kind of place where everything is either burnt or rotting, and yet somehow, I make it work.

The knife in my hand sinks into the flesh of the chicken, slicing through the muscle. I don’t look up when the door swings open because the sound of footsteps is too familiar. Mark drops into the seat across from me, making himself comfortable. I still don’t spare him a glance.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just grabs an apple from the counter, rolls it between his fingers, debating something. Then he takes the first bite, and it’s so obnoxiously loud that it feels like it’s trying to crawl under my skin.

“How was it?”

I don’t look up or stop chopping.

I slide the sliced chicken into a battered tin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Mark snorts, taking another crunching bite.

“I’m serious,” he says, licking juice from his thumb. “She’s the first thing you’ve been obsessed with in—fuck, I dunno—ever? I’m just asking if it was worth it.”

“What do you want, kid?”

He shrugs, taking another bite of that apple, chewing so deliberately loud I swear to god he’s doing it just to piss me off.

“I’m bored.”

I flick my knife toward the corner without looking. “Go be bored over there.”

Mark laughs, shaking his head. He doesn’t move. Just leans back, stretching his legs out. “For the record—” he says, tapping the apple against the table. “I shouldn’t have overstepped about Terry.”

I keep chopping. The sound of the blade hitting wood is the only answer he gets.

Mark exhales, rubbing his jaw. “Look, man, I—”

“What communication I had with Terry is none of your fucking business. You don’t know shit, and frankly, I’ve long forgotten most of it anyway.”

It’s a lie, but it does the job, and Mark doesn’t push.

Then the door opens again, and a guard steps in, stopping right beside the table.

Something drops onto the surface with a dull thud.

“Package for you.”

When I don’t acknowledge it, the guard lingers for half a second too long, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking up.

Eventually, he gets the message and walks out.

Mark, however?

He grabs the package, flipping it in his hands. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Not interested.”

Mark grins, ripping the paper open. “I’ll do it for you, then. Who knows, maybe it’s a love letter from Faith.”

I snort, the edge of my mouth curling as I set the knife down. “After what I put her through last night?” I shake my head, grabbing a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it up. “I doubt it’s anything but a restraining order.”

Mark laughs, shaking his head as his eyes linger on me.

I raise a brow, exhaling smoke. “What?”

“You’re smiling. She gets to you, man.”

My smile widens as I turn back to the pan, saying nothing when I hear the rustling of paper unfolding, followed by complete silence.

It lasts a beat too long, then another, and when I finally glance up, Mark’s face has lost its usual lazy amusement. He blinks, eyes scanning the page once—then again, slower this time. His breath hitches, his hands tighten, and without warning, he slams the paper onto the table.

“What the fuck is this?”

I take a single glance and it’s a court ruling. A death sentence.

I wipe the blade clean on my sleeve and pick up a skillet.

Mark, on the other hand, is losing his fucking mind.

“Zane. Zane.” He shoves the paper toward me. “This says you’re getting executed.”

I toss oil into the pan. It sizzles on contact, filling the room with the smell of something rancid burning.

“Are you even fucking listening?”

I glance at him once, raising a brow. “What do you want me to do? Cry about it?”

Mark makes a sound between a laugh and a guttural snarl. “You—you don’t even fucking care, do you?”

I flip the chicken, watching it sear to perfection.

Mark rakes his fingers through his hair, pacing beside the table. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Zane! You didn’t even do it! You’re seriously going to let them execute you for something you didn’t fucking do?”

I shrug. “The court says I did.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking insane.”

“That’s what they keep telling me.”

“You have to fight this.”

I set the spatula down, leveling him with a look that makes his mouth snap shut.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“You’re really going to die for this?”

I take the chicken off the heat, setting the pan aside.

Then, finally, I look at him and give him a smile.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Mark lets out a frustrated breath as his grip tightens on the paper before he shoves it under his arm. “I’m talking to my lawyer. There’s a way out of this.” He mutters the words mostly to himself, already halfway out the door before I can bother to respond.

I pick up my plate, cut a bite of chicken, and eat in silence.

Let Mark stress about it.

I have other things on my mind.

By the time I scrape the last bite off my plate and rinse my hands, the guards are waiting.

One of them steps forward. “Get up. You need to come with us.”

I don’t even acknowledge him.

Another guard paces impatiently, and when I still don’t comply, they force it anyway. A rough hand grips my shoulder, delivering a sharp shove that doesn’t even reposition me, until I decide to walk myself.

I should be annoyed.

Instead, I’m bored.

Until I see the sign above the door.

Attorney-Client Visitation Room.

The guard swipes his keycard, and as the heavy door buzzes open, I step inside to find Yvette sitting in the chair. It’s been a decade since I’ve seen her, since she stood beside me in court as a fresh-faced first-year associate.

I’ve got to give her props, she still looks exactly the same.

I scoff and drop into the chair across from her, slouching back with my arms stretched lazily over the armrests.

“Goddamn, Yvette. You haven’t aged a day. What’s your secret? Human sacrifice?”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head as she slides a cigarette across the table toward me.

“Good to see you too, Zane.”

Yvette pulls out an expensive Zippo and flicks it open in one smooth motion. I lean forward, letting the flame kiss the end as I inhale slowly, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs before exhaling.

She’s always been impossible to rattle, one of the few people in my life who’s never feared me. Without saying a word, she pulls out her own cigarette, lights it and takes a slow drag.

“You look good.”

“I try. Prison skincare routine is killer.”

She doesn’t laugh this time.

“Your grandfather reached out to me,” she says, exhaling the smoke.

My fingers tighten around the cigarette.

I don’t react outwardly, but inside?

Something punches deep.

He’s the only person in my family who ever treated me like I was worth something. The only person who looked me in the eye and saw me, not my father, not my mother’s ghost, not the ruined fucking thing I became.

“He wants you to fight this.” She slides a manila folder across the table to me. “And he asked me to help.”

“That’s a real shame.” I flick my cigarette toward the ashtray. “Because I don’t give a fuck.”

Yvette doesn’t flinch. She knew I’d say that, but she still tries, spending the next ten minutes laying it all out—the appeal process, the loopholes, and the ways we can still win.

I let her waste her breath because my mind is already made up. There’s still time before my execution, not much, but enough, and I know exactly what it’ll come down to. It won’t be my grandfather’s plea. It won’t be Yvette’s arguments.

It’ll be Faith.

If she wants me alive, I’ll fight.

If she doesn’t?

I’ll let the needle slide into my veins and leave this world like I walked into it.

“You’re such a fucking waste of potential,” she snaps clicking her fingers when she realizes I’m not paying attention.

I grin. “And you’re still the same uptight bitch who lost my case.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just stands, brushing imaginary dust off her expensive suit, giving me one last look before she heads for the door.

She moves toward the door but pauses, glancing back, “You never asked me why your grandfather reached out to me even after I lost your case.”

“Probably because I don’t give a fuck.”

Yvette watches me, tapping her fingers lightly against the doorframe before sighing as if speaking to a particularly dense child.

“Because I was the only one who believed your bullshit story.”