Page 46 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE BEAUTY

“ M r. Valehart, let’s go over your whereabouts the night of the murder again.”

I increase the speed on the treadmill as my pulse pounds in my ears, not from exhaustion or effort but from rage. The recording plays in my ear while Zane’s cold and taunting words cut through my thoughts like a serrated blade.

“I was with Ella and Luke that night”

Luke.

His name was never part of the official reports. Not in anything released to the press, not in any of the redacted transcripts. I only know of him because I have access to the restricted files. Even in those, Luke’s testimony is missing. Apparently, he’s the one who sold Zane out.

“And were you aware that Christopher Valehart was at your grandfather’s estate that evening?”

“Didn’t know, didn’t care.”

“And yet, you ended up there that night?”

“Sure did.”

I increase the speed again as my breaths come faster, sweat slides down my spine, and my body coils with barely restrained fury.

“What were you doing at the VonKrauss estate?”

“I went to see Ella and Luke at Luke’s apartment. It’s closer to my grandfather’s house.”

“Why?”

“Because Ella was pissed at me,”

“Why was she pissed at you?”

“She was pissed at me for dodging her calls.”

“Why were you dodging her calls?”

“Because I was fucking multiple girls.”

“Excuse me?”

“You ever answer a phone mid-thrust, Carrie?”

Laughter ripples through the courtroom.

My blood boils.

Carrie, to her credit, doesn’t react.

The judge, however, does.

“Order.” The gavel slams. “Mr. Valehart, let’s keep the testimony appropriate.”

“Just answering the question, Your Honor.”

“What’s the connection between you going back to the VonKraus estate and Ella?”

I can hear the way Zane smiles before he even speaks.

“I hate when she’s pissed at me.”

My teeth grind as my feet pound harder against the treadmill, my pulse roaring louder than the rhythmic thud of my steps.

“So, to lighten her up, I wanted to steal my father’s car.”

“So, you admit to stealing?”

Zane laughs, the kind of sound that makes me want to reach through the speakers and strangle him.

“Did I say that?”

“Christopher was on a business trip. How exactly were you planning to steal his car when he wasn’t even in town?”

“My father has a backup car at the VonKraus estate. I was going to take that one out.”

“So let me get this straight.” I hear a brief pause followed by the quiet shuffle of papers. “You were planning to steal and then drive drunk in your father’s car… just to amuse a girl?”

“And to piss off my father.”

“If that was your motive, why didn’t you take the car?”

“Because the lights were still on. I figured Mom was awake, and I didn’t want to get caught stealing the car.”

Of course.

He wasn’t worried about getting caught for the crime; he was just worried about getting scolded.

“So what did you do?”

“I slept in the gazebo near the fountain.”

I nearly trip on the treadmill.

“You… slept?”

“Yeah.”

“You were sneaking into an estate to steal a car. You had adrenaline in your system. You knew you could get caught.” A pause. “And you’re telling this court that you just—fell asleep?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“And what happened when you woke up?”

“When I woke up, it was already too early, so I ditched the idea and walked to Luke’s place.”

That’s it.

That’s his explanation.

That’s how he explains away a murder.

“Mr. Zane Christopher Valehart, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

I snarl under my breath and slam my finger down on the treadmill’s console, stopping both the recording and the machine in one go.

Not guilty , my ass. Zane wasn’t sleeping in that gazebo.

He went inside and killed his mother.

She probably caught him stealing the car. Maybe she tried to stop him, maybe she threatened to tell Christopher. And Zane, being the unhinged psycho he is, took care of the problem.

But Alex?

Alex saw something he shouldn’t have, maybe he heard it first, maybe he caught a glimpse of Zane covered in blood, standing over Isabella’s body, but either way, that was it.

That was Zane’s motive. His own brother had seen him do it, and Zane, true to form, did what he always does: he cleaned up the mess without hesitation.

If I can get my hands on Christopher’s statements, Isabella’s behavior with him and as a person, I can put the pieces together.

Zane’s grandfather already established that Isabella was an alcoholic.

Maybe she wasn’t just some neglectful drunk.

Maybe she abused Zane. Maybe that's the reason why he likes hurting women. If Isabella abused Zane, it wouldn’t be surprising that his pain twisted into something darker.

Children learn from what they experience, and if the one woman who was supposed to love and protect him instead became a source of fear and trauma, it could have warped his view of women entirely.

Violence might have become his way of regaining control, of turning fear into power.

It doesn’t excuse what he’s done, but it could explain why his instinct is to dominate.

Zane isn’t just some cold-blooded killer.

He’s a product of years of emotional corrosion.

Isabella’s drinking might have been more than just a flaw.

Maybe that was his real motive.

It’s almost impossible to see him as a victim, to see anything in him that isn’t dangerous, cruel and beyond repair but it’s not impossible.

And that’s how I can conclude this project.

But first…

I need to calm down.

Because if I don’t, I’ll be marching to that prison myself.

And unlike his mother and Alex… I wouldn’t be a loose end he’d tie up.

No, Zane would keep me alive.

Long enough to make me wish he hadn’t.

The line at the college cafeteria is too long, too slow, too normal for the kind of rage sitting in my veins. I cross my arms, tapping my fingers against my biceps as I grit my teeth.

I step forward, staring at the bored-looking guy behind the register. “One large pizza.”

He barely looks at me. “Toppings?”

“Extra cheese, extra sauce, and every fucking pepper you’ve got.”

That makes him glance up. “You want it spicy?”

“Yes.”

His fingers hover over the screen. “We can do extra spicy.”

“Do it.”

I hear the buzz of my phone, but I don’t pick it up.

I just let it ring, like I’ve been doing for the last twelve hours.

My eyes flick down to the screen, catching the message that came in five hours ago.

I’m going to call you one last time. If you ignore it, I’m going to set up an exhibition of the eyes of men who’ve had the privilege of your attention.

He’s not serious. He’s just trying to get in my head. He’s locked up and he can’t do anything. But I can’t stop staring at the message.

Should I pick up?

I hesitate with my thumb hovering over the screen, but before I can make a decision, the call stops buzzing.

Just then, Tria nudges me, pulling me back. “Faith? You okay?”

I blink, glancing up. The guy behind the counter is glowering at me.

Tria huffs, pointing at him. “He’s been waiting for an answer.”

I look from her to the guy, then back at her, feigning ignorance. “What did he ask?”

Tria sighs, rolling her eyes. “How spicy do you want it.”

I meet the guy’s gaze and answer. “Three times.”

“You sure? That level of spice comes with a waiver.”

I narrow my eyes. “Put it on my damn plate.”

He shrugs, punching it in.

“And a Diet Coke.”

Behind me, Tria lets out a low whistle. “Who pissed you off enough to make you self-destruct with food?”

I pull my card out, tapping it against the reader as my fingers drum impatiently on the surface, still too keyed up, still ready to break something. “No one, really. I just went to burn off some energy in the gym, and it wasn’t enough.”

Tria snorts. “So you went to the gym, and now you’re eating pizza?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Because I went to the gym, I can eat pizza.”

She snorts but doesn’t drop it. “Okay, but three times? Are you trying to summon a demon?”

I grab my receipt and tuck it into my pocket before turning to her with a flat look. “Try having an orgasm in a room full of snakes.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked up.

“What the actual fuck?”

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I force out a laugh, shaking my head as I wave a hand. “Okay, not literally. It was a dream, alright?”

Tria’s confusion only deepens. “Wait, you had an orgasm in your dream?”

“Yeah, I mean? Dreams can be weird.”

“You need help.”

I already know that.

The cafeteria intercom beeps as my order number flashes on the pickup screen, and I bolt for it, grabbing the pizza box while the heat seeps through the cardboard, carrying the scent of molten cheese and pure hell.

Tria follows, shaking her head as I snatch my Diet Coke and drop onto the nearest table.

She watches in morbid fascination as I grab a slice and take a huge bite.

Hell ignites in my throat. It burns and chokes as the agony in my gut crawls up my sinuses, and makes my eyes sting.

Perfect.

I don’t stop.

I don’t slow down.

Because finally I feel something that isn’t him.

I grab my phone, licking the molten spice from my lips as I open a search tab.

Isabella Valehart.

The results load instantly.

Articles flood the screen with charity work, humanitarian efforts, speeches at schools, donations to shelters, scholarship programs for underprivileged kids.

It’s an endless list of good deeds, each one painting her as a perfect woman who was so goddamn pure that even death couldn’t stain her reputation.

There are no scandals, no rumors, and no accusations. There’s not a single slander piece. And that’s a rarity that just doesn’t happen.

She was, by all accounts, flawless.

The only thing that feels off is that Christopher Valehart doesn’t exist. There are no articles, no interviews, no family statements, just nothing at all. Just a single contact number for his law firm, neatly tucked away in an article about Isabella’s funeral.

That’s it.

That’s the only public trace of him.