Page 48 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE MONSTER

T he faucet keeps vibrating.

I lean forward and splash cold water onto my face, then press my palms to my eyes until the sting sets in. The porcelain beneath my hands shudders again, as if trying to get my attention, but I refuse to give it the satisfaction.

It’s because the one person who would’ve taught you how to respect it, you put her in the fucking ground.

Those words won’t leave me alone.

Do I regret what I did?

Not for a fucking second.

If she thought that line was going to dig guilt out of me, if she believed for even one heartbeat I’d regret laying my hands on her, or putting out a display of people who disrespected her, or putting my mouth between her thighs and making her come while fear burned behind her ribs—

She’s delusional.

She’s only angry because I went through with the exhibition. That’s what this is about. That’s why she tried to cut me deep with that little line about my mother.

I didn’t want to traumatize her with that arrangement. I didn’t do it for fun, or to leave her shaking at the sight of it. I did it because she needed to understand that I don’t bluff.

I wasn’t planning on keeping the eyes.

That part wasn’t intentional.

But after the Shadow Room—after that night—after I tasted her, broke her open and watched her tremble beneath me, I couldn’t sleep knowing there were people walking around with the audacity to look at her like she was less.

Those eyes didn’t deserve to keep seeing.

So I took them. One by one.

I didn’t even have time to get rid of them. They were sitting in that box for weeks, tucked away under my bed, waiting for a proper disposal plan I never gave myself time to make.

The sound of the canvas hitting the floor snaps through the cell and I turn to see it lying face-down with a bent corner and a crooked frame, as if it had tried to crawl away from me.

I crouch and curl my fingers under the edge, lifting the canvas upright.

The pressure in my chest eases the moment it’s straight again.

I dip two fingers into the mess of red and black on the tray beside it and start smearing, letting the color bleed across the surface.

The slick slide of paint under my fingertips grounds me better than any sedative ever could.

I work in harsh strokes as the shape of a mouth begins to form, followed by the curve of a jaw and eyes that refuse to blink.

The knock interrupts me mid-stroke, as if whoever’s on the other side thinks they’ve earned the right to break my focus.

I look up to see a guard stepping inside before I can tell her not to.

She’s wearing too much lip gloss and has too few brain cells.

Fuck, what was her name? Riley? Bianca? Maybe Madison. Doesn’t matter.

Her eyes sweep over my bare chest, paint-smeared hands, and the mess of rage and control wound tight beneath my skin. Then she bites her bottom lip, making it painfully obvious.

“Didn’t know you painted,” she purrs.

I ignore her and let my fingers get back to work, dipping into more red, dragging streaks across the canvas as lines cut through the white. She steps closer, but I don’t stop.

“I could model for you,” she offers, sliding her hands down her hips. “Out of uniform, if you want the full view.”

I drag black through the red, twisting the color into a shape that reminds me of her spine when I had her bent over the bed with her mouth stuffed full of her own moans.

The real her.

Not this girl playing dress-up in a predator’s cage.

She moves closer, within reach now, as if she’s waiting for me to grab her waist and press her into the nearest wall.

“Not interested,” I mutter as I paint a split down the middle of Faith’s neck.

“You’re kidding,” she scoffs. “Everyone else would kill to—”

I finally snap my head up, shutting her up. She falters as I wipe the paint from my fingers with a rag and toss it onto the table.

“Leave.”

She steps back, faking an unbothered scoff as though she wasn’t two seconds away from dropping to her knees.

I lower my eyes, satisfied for now, and shove the tray aside. Mark had been whining for days about restarting the sessions. I didn’t care, but the kid had a mouth on him, and that alone was enough to earn a second look. I push open my cell door and head down the corridor.

I know exactly where his cell is, third on the right.

He always has a book propped in the corner and hums some dumb tune under his breath.

But when I get there, it’s empty. No book, no Mark, just air.

My jaw tightens as I turn and catch sight of a familiar face two cells down.

It’s the new kid from the yard who was talking about Halloween plans with Mark.

I step toward him, and he notices me but it’s too late. My hand shoots out, grabbing the front of his shirt as I slam him against the bars behind him, his shoulders hitting hard. He flinches.

“Where is Mark?”

“Uh—he went to the library.”

I don’t even need to call bullshit. The kid reeks of it. His pulse is thundering under my hand, throat bobbing with a swallow he can’t control.

“Try again.”

“I—I don’t know, man. I’m not with him all the time.”

I drag him forward just enough to make his feet stumble beneath him, then slam him back against the bars. His skull hits the metal with a dull, wet thud, and he cries out and reaches for the back of his head, but he’s not quick enough to stop the blood that begins to snake down his neck.

“You’ve got three seconds to give me a name.” The threat curls under my breath like smoke. “Or I’ll pull your teeth out with my bare fucking hands and leave them in your pillowcase for a twisted little fairy to find.”

He panics as his eyes dart around, searching for an escape or a guard who might actually give a fuck and be close enough to help.

There isn’t.

“Okay! Okay! I—I saw him go into Frank’s cell.”

Everything inside me stills.

“Was he alone?”

“He was with Frank. And the other two—those guys that are always with him. I—I don’t know why, I swear.”

I release him, and he collapses against the bars, coughing and clutching his throat. I’m already walking away by the time he hits the ground.

Frank.

That greasy fuck’s been sniffing around too long without bleeding.

Time to change that.

I pick up speed as my boots hammer against the concrete and the buzz under my skin sharpens with every step.

If Frank laid a single finger on that kid, I’m going to make him eat it.

When I reach his cell, I don’t need to peek through the bars to know something’s fucked.

The sounds tell me enough. The low, muffled grunts, the stifled gag, the steady, sickening slap of skin against skin, each noise keeps stacking on top of the last until the picture in my mind is worse than anything I could’ve seen.

I move closer and look inside. Mark is on his knees, completely naked. His shoulders are hunched and trembling, his head bowed so low that his chin nearly touches his chest.

One of Frank’s boys stands in front of Mark, holding a brutal grip on the back of his head as he shoves his cock deep down Mark’s throat. Another crony lounges on the lower bunk, leaning back with a bored smirk as he lazily strokes himself, clearly waiting for his turn.

Frank stands behind Mark, with one hand on his hip and the other tangled in his hair. He’s buried deep inside him, moving with controlled force, wearing a smug grin that makes me want to rip it off his face with my bare hands.

There’s a nylon string looped around one of his teeth, tethered to the upper bunk. It’s tight enough that if Frank’s movements shift him wrong, it’ll rip the tooth clean out.

Mark’s eyes meet mine, and what I see makes my chest collapse. They’re empty and blank, he’s already gone.

Something inside me breaks.

My hands slam against the cell door, the metal rattling under the force. I grip the bars and yank, throwing my full weight into it as I try to rip it open.

“Frank, you fucking piece of shit!”

Frank looks up, and his grin widens. He doesn’t stop. He thrusts harder, slamming his hips into Mark with loud, brutal smacks. My knuckles slam against the bars so hard they split open. Blood leaks down my wrist, but I don’t fucking care.

“Frank!” My throat tears on the name. “Get the fuck off him!”

“Yeah?” Frank drawls, without even looking back. “You jealous, Zane? Wanna trade places?”

I throw myself against the bars again. They screech but they won’t fucking budge. My muscles burn as I try anyway, screaming at them.

“Get off him!”

Frank doesn’t even glance my way. He’s too busy pounding into Mark. His hips snap forward hard enough to make the bed creak with every brutal thrust.

I slam my boot against the bars. “Frank, I swear on everything I have left, I will rip your cock off with my bare fucking hands!”

Frank laughs as he digs his nails into Mark’s hips. Blood leaks around his fingertips. “Didn’t know you liked damaged pussy too.”

He grabs Mark’s hair, yanks his head back until the nylon goes taut and Mark winces.

“Maybe I’ll pull this tooth out and keep it.” He twists Mark’s head cruelly, licking his lips. “Make it a trophy. Right next to his tight little ass.”

My hands won’t stop shaking. I ram my shoulder into the door. Again. Again. Bone jars with each hit. “You motherfucker! You touch him again, and I’ll bury your fucking tongue inside your stomach!”

The goon with his cock shoved down Mark’s throat lets out a low whistle. “Shit. He’s got the fire.”

Frank chuckles, pulls out slow, just to slam back in harder. Mark’s body shudders. His knees scrape against the floor. There’s no sound from him.

The laugh from his sidekick cuts into my spine. “Bet his hole’s ruined now. Ain’t no fixing that pussy.”

My scream could wake the dead. “You’re fucking dead, Frank! You hear me? DEAD! I’ll bite your fucking throat out!”

I throw myself at the bars until I fall back, panting on the floor. Frank moans, rolling his hips. “Mmm, fuck—tight even now. I might finish inside just to mark him proper.”