Page 58 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE MONSTER

I never wanted to dig a grave again.

But here I am.

The dirt’s loose, easier to work through than I expected. My fingers tighten around the shovel as my muscles burn with every push and lift. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking the thin shirt stretched over my back.

Mark’s body is right behind me, wrapped in a tattered sheet. He’s been there for hours. Nobody’s going to move him but me.

There’s a tradition here, an unspoken rule. If you get close to someone inside and they become your “family,” you’re allowed to bury them. Not officially. The guards never acknowledge it, but it happens. They look the other way, and let you have your moment.

It’s fucked up.

But that’s prison for you.

The grave’s deep enough now. I drop the shovel and kneel beside Mark’s body. I grab the edge of the sheet and lift, dragging him toward the pit. His body’s heavier than I remember. Or maybe I’m just fucking tired.

“Don’t take this personally,” I grit out, adjusting my grip as I maneuver him into position. “You know how it is.”

But he doesn’t answer.

I let go, and Mark’s body slides down, hitting the bottom of the grave. I grab the shovel again, but I don’t move. I can’t look at him, but I don’t have to. The image is already burned into my brain.

The way he looked when I found him.

His face is all I can see, and fuck, I can’t stop seeing it.

Bloated, mottled gray, his eyes blown wide and bulging as if he had stared into something too massive to survive.

The rope had carved deep into his neck, leaving the flesh raw and puckered.

His tongue, black and swollen, jutted from his mouth in a twisted mockery of breathing.

The guards cut him down, dumped his body, and left the mess behind for me to deal with. I try to shove the image away, but it’s burned into my skull.

No one knows I was the first to see him.

I had walked past his cell this morning, something pulling me back, making me stop and look.

And that’s when I saw him hanging. But I didn’t call for help because I knew it was too late.

And now, as I stand here staring at the dirt, I feel something I haven’t touched in years.

Guilt.

Mark’s in this position because of Frank.

And Frank only went after him because of me.

Frank wanted power. I wanted him in the fucking ground. But when I didn’t finish the job, Mark got caught in the middle.

I should’ve killed Frank. Should’ve snapped his neck, torn him apart, dragged his body through the fucking dirt. Instead, I left him breathing.

That’s on me.

The weight of it sticks to my ribs as I drive the last shovel of dirt over the grave.

It strikes the ground with a heavy, lifeless sound, sealing Mark beneath the earth as I stand there for a moment.

Then I toss the shovel aside and the metal clatters against the gravel, echoing through the stillness as dust rises and settles over the packed earth.

Done.

Except it’s not. Not really.

I drag a hand down my face as my muscles ache, but the pain is nothing compared to the crushing weight pressing down on my chest.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

I don’t turn around.

“Really? What gave it away? The pile of dirt or my charming personality?”

“Neither. It’s the stench of guilt.”

“You must be mistaken. Guilt’s not exactly my thing.”

She doesn’t respond. I can feel her watching me, hoping I’ll let my guard slip. But I’m not in the mood for this.

“What do you want, Shirley?”

“I have a group of university students coming in today to observe and study prisoner behavior firsthand. They’ll be conducting interviews, taking notes, and analyzing interactions for their research.”

“How cute,” I sneer, brushing dirt from my hands. “Should I greet them with a welcome mat? Maybe throw in a murder demonstration for extra credit?”

“Not happening. You’re staying in your cell. Last thing I need is you getting bored and trying to impress them.”

“Come on, Shirley. You think I’d waste my charm on a bunch of wannabe FBI agents?”

“I think you’re off your game.”

“I’ve never been better.”

“Oh, really?” She gestures toward the grave. “Then why are you so damn bothered? You’ve buried plenty before.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why?” She steps closer. “Because this time it wasn’t someone you killed?”

My teeth clench. “Because this time it was Mark.”

She waits, but I’m not giving her anything else.

“Face it, Zane,” she presses. “You’ve spent the last seven years killing prisoners—”

“Rapists.”

Seven years.

That’s how long I’ve been moving from prison to prison.

I’ve buried a lot of men in here, but none of them were innocent.

They deserved it. Every. Single. One. Rapists don’t belong in the same category as murderers.

Murder has a reason, a purpose. You take a life because someone crossed a line, because revenge demands it, because survival leaves no other fucking choice.

But rape? There’s no reason. No excuse. It’s pure fucking evil.

And that’s why I don’t hesitate.

It’s why I made it my mission to clean this place out, one rapist at a time. They think they can hide in here, surrounded by walls and guards, but I don’t play by the rules. I never have. I don’t kill for sport. I kill because it’s justice. The kind of justice no one else has the balls to deliver.

“...like it’s a fucking hobby. But suddenly, putting one in the ground has you acting like you’re carrying the weight of the world. I’ve seen you covered in blood without so much as a blink. What makes Mark so different?”

“Because Mark wasn’t a rapist.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue. She never does when it comes to that.

“You’re slipping,” she reminds me instead. “That’s what happens when you get attached.”

“I’m not attached.”

“Then why are you so pissed?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t fucking know.

“You done?” I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Or are you here for a therapy session too?”

She shakes her head. “Just stay out of sight. And try not to traumatize the students.”

“No promises.”

Shirley turns and heads back toward the cell block while I watch her go. She’s convinced she’s seen it all and knows exactly how I work.

But she doesn’t.

No one does.

I walk away without looking back because no amount of dirt will bury it. I head toward the cell block when I should be going straight to my cell and keeping my head down like Shirley fucking suggested, but I don’t.

I go to Mark’s cell instead. And I’m not the only one there.

There’s a girl crouched by Mark’s bunk with her head down and shoulders trembling, her long dark hair spilling around her face to hide it, but I don’t need to see her eyes to know she’s crying.

Khloe.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

She startles and her head whips toward me, her red eyes and blotchy face making it clear she’s been crying for a while.

“Are… are you his friend?”

“Brother,” I correct. “Not that you’d know anything about loyalty.”

Her face crumples, but I don’t give a shit.

“What the fuck are you even doing here? Looking for more ways to destroy what’s left of him? Or just here to gawk at the mess you made?”

“I…” Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first. She wipes at her face, swallowing hard. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” I cut her off. “Didn’t ask him to kill for you? Didn’t watch him rot in here while you lived your fucking life?”

Her eyes drop to the floor, but I don’t let her hide.

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I know enough. I know he loved you. I know he would’ve died for you.

You’re a cheap, lying whore who fed him nothing but bullshit.

You let him love you. Let him believe he was saving you.

Let him throw away his whole fucking life for a girl who couldn’t even look him in the eye when the blood hit the floor. ”

Her body stiffens. She tries to hide it, but I see the way her hands tighten around her dress.

“And I know you’re not here because you loved him.” Her eyes flick up, but I don’t stop. “You’re here because guilt’s a bitch and now that he’s gone, you can’t fucking live with yourself.”

Khloe’s head snaps up again. Her tear-streaked face is flushed, but this time it’s not from sorrow.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she spits. “And yeah, maybe I deserved that. Maybe I deserve every word you’re throwing at me. But you don’t know me. Don’t stand there pretending you ever did.”

“I don’t need to know you. Trash smells the same no matter how much perfume you drown it in,” I scoff.

She steps closer, squaring her shoulders, and for the first time, she looks at me with the same fire burning through her veins as mine.

“I’m grateful,” she grits out. “Grateful that someone in here ha..d... his back,” she stumbles, working her mouth faster than her heart can handle. “But you’re not the only one hurting, so why don’t you go be a dick somewhere else?”

I don’t respond. What’s the fucking point?

She turns away and her hands move to the edge of the bunk. Her fingers brush over the worn fabric of Mark’s old football T-shirt as if it might crumble beneath her touch.

And then she smiles, but there’s no joy in it. It’s sorrow in its rawest form. Her body buckles as the smile contorts and her shoulders shake as the sobs come. They’re not loud or violent, just silent and broken.

She clutches the shirt tighter as tears fall soundlessly, and the weight of everything she tried to bury rises to the surface, dragging her down inch by inch.

And I let her.

I don’t offer comfort. I don’t reach for her.

But I don’t fucking hate her in this moment.

And I sure as hell don’t stay.

I step out and the corridor stretches long and empty.

A couple of guards linger near the checkpoint, bored and half-asleep, barely glancing at me as I pass.

I keep moving toward the common area, slipping past tables where inmates are either playing cards or plotting their next fuck-up, and head straight for the far wall.

None of it really registers, because the second I walk in, my eyes lock on the cracked TV mounted high above, pulling all the air out of the room.

“—the brutal killing of local businessman Derrick Voss has left the community in shock,” the reporter says. “Voss, a known philanthropist and real estate mogul, was found dead in his home last night, the victim of what authorities are calling a ‘targeted assassination.’”

I know that blood.

“Sources close to the investigation suggest Voss’s death may be linked to ongoing criminal activities,” the reporter continues. “However, no suspects have been named at this time.”

Because I made damn sure there wouldn’t be any.

“Voss was last seen leaving a charity event just hours before his death. Police are urging anyone with information to come forward. We are pursuing all leads and will ensure justice is served.”

“Yo, Zane.”

I barely turn before a cigarette dangles in my face, held by smoke-stained fingers and accompanied by sunken eyes belonging to Pete or Peter or Peanut, I really don’t care.

“You look like you could use one,” he rasps. “Trade ya a story for a smoke.”

I don’t answer. Just pluck the cigarette from his fingers. The lighter’s in his other hand before I can ask. The first drag hits deep but it works.

“So, what’s the story?”

I exhale slow, watching the smoke curl in the air. “No story.”

Pete scoffs. “Bullshit. You’ve got that look.”

I don’t bother answering as Patrick’s face fades, replaced by footage of the alley where the blood has been washed away, but the dark stains still remain.

“While no official statements have been made, the sheer brutality of the attack has led many to believe this was an act of revenge. Police are investigating possible gang involvement.”

I keep watching. Let them repeat the same lines. Let the news cycle spin its story.

I know the truth.

Derrick Voss didn’t just die.

He was delivered.