Page 59 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE BEAUTY

T he prison doesn’t look like a prison.

Not from the outside.

The building stretches wide with clean lines and smooth concrete giving it a modern feel, while tall glass windows glint under the morning sun, reflecting the green landscape surrounding the facility.

Trees line the perimeter, their branches swaying lazily in the breeze, and for a second, it looks more like a corporate office or some high-end research center.

But I know better. Beneath the polished surface, behind those glass walls and security doors, monsters breathe.

And one of them is waiting for me.

I adjust the strap of my bag, but it doesn’t distract me from the tightness in my chest.

“Looks fancy,” Tria remarks beside me, narrowing her eyes as she takes in the view. “Almost… nice.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

Xaden stands on my other side with his arms crossed. He hasn’t said much since we pulled up, but his silence speaks volumes as the unease rolling off him grows thick enough to choke on.

“Come on,” he clips while his eyes are locked straight ahead. “Let’s get this over with.”

We walk toward the entrance where a guard stands by the doors. He keeps his expression blank as his eyes track our every move, making it clear that no one gets in without permission.

“IDs,” he grunts, holding out his hand.

We all pull them out, handing them over without a word. His gaze lingers on mine a second longer than necessary, and my heart jumps before I can stop it.

Relax, Faith.

I force my breathing to stay even as he scans each one.

“Follow me.”

We step inside, and I notice the polished floors and neutral colors of the lobby, but the walls seem to suffocate us a little more with every step we take.

“Arms out,” another guard barks as we approach the security checkpoint.

I lift my arms as the scanner sweeps over me.

“Clear.”

I grab my stuff and step aside. Tria joins me a second later and her eyes hold mine, silently asking if I’m feeling the same unease.

I don’t confirm or deny.

Tria doesn’t push.

We both know whatever’s twisting inside me isn’t something I’m going to admit. Xaden joins us a moment later, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Twenty-seven other students gather around. Some are wide-eyed, their excitement barely contained. Others look smug, treating this visit as just another flex for their future résumés.

Good for them.

A guard steps forward, his face carved with a stoic hardness that could be mistaken for stone, while his crisp uniform bears a black patch stitched with the prison’s emblem.

“Listen up,” he barks. “You’ll follow my lead from here on out. No straying. No questions unless I say so. Keep your hands visible at all times. You’re entering a secured facility, and we don’t tolerate fuck-ups. Got it?”

A chorus of nods.

“Step forward one at a time for identification,” he continues. “You’ll receive temporary visitor badges. Wear them at all times. Lose one, and you’re done. No exceptions.”

We shuffle into line.

The machine vibrates softly as it scans my fingerprint. A second later, a plastic badge slides from the slot with my name, photo, and Visitor in bold red letters stamped across it.

I clip it to my shirt and move to stand in the far corner.

“Next,” the guard barks.

Tria’s next. Then Xaden. One by one, the others follow.

“Shoes off,” the guard snaps once the last student steps away. “Phones, Belts, jewelry, watches. Place them in the trays.”

I kick off my shoes, and my belt and phone clatter into the plastic bin, followed by my necklaces and bracelets. The guard scans us once more as if committing every detail to memory, leaving no feature unnoticed.

“Step through the body scanner.”

Another line. Another round of inspections.

“Rules are simple,” he announces, commanding the space the way he would with a line of recruits, not a class of students. “You’ll stay in the designated areas. Common spaces only. No stepping into restricted zones. No touching inmates. No exceptions.”

Another pause.

“If an alarm goes off, drop to the ground and stay down. Guards will respond. Do not move until you’re instructed.”

A few students glance at each other, but no one says a word.

“Move out.”

The doors slide open with a metallic groan. We step forward, the hallway stretching ahead of us. Cameras blink from the corners. Thick, reinforced glass runs along one side, giving a perfect view into the first common area.

Tables are bolted to the floor, and the concrete walls are painted a sterile gray.

Inmates fill the space. Some sit in groups, playing cards or speaking in hushed tones, while others linger along the edges, their eyes tracking us as we pass.

A few flash unsettling grins, but most don’t bother looking at all.

And I wonder…

Is he watching?

I don’t know.

We’re led into the library.

It’s bigger than I expected.

Rows of shelves stretch from wall to wall, filled with books that look too pristine to be touched. The floors are polished, and the air is cool but not uncomfortably so. Large windows let in filtered sunlight, making the space feel…

Almost normal.

But it isn’t.

Because this isn’t a college campus or a public library.

This is still a prison.

The tables, just like in the common area, are bolted to the floor. The chairs are anchored, designed to keep everything exactly where it’s supposed to be.

We’re told to take a seat, and the students scatter, grabbing spots around the nearest table.

Tria slides in beside me and Xaden takes the seat across from us. I sit quietly, keeping my head down as I pull out my notebook.

Just observe. Take notes. Don’t draw attention.

“Alright, everyone.”

Dr. Harrington’s presence dominates the room as he strides forward, his forced enthusiasm barely masking the rigid authority in his movements.

“Settle in. You’ll be spending the next hour here before we begin observing inmate behavior.”

Movement ripples through the group, quiet voices threading through the air, fueled by the excitement they can’t quite hide.

“Before that,” Harrington continues, “I’d like to introduce someone who knows this place better than any of us.”

He steps aside, gesturing toward the woman who enters behind him.

“Good morning.” The woman steps forward and greets us with a calm authority that immediately settles the restless energy in the room. “I’m Shirley Anderson. I oversee rehabilitation programs here.”

She looks to be in her mid-fifties, with short, practical hair that’s more gray than brown. Lines crease her face, but instead of hardening her features, they soften them.

And unlike the guards—who watch us like we’re one step away from fucking something up—Shirley’s presence doesn’t make my skin crawl.

“Some of you might be wondering,” she continues, “why a maximum-security prison like this one offers facilities that look… a little different than what you’re used to.”

A few students nod. One of the guys sitting near the front speaks up.

“Yeah, I read that this place has a music studio? And inmates can take cooking classes?”

Shirley’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s right.”

Another student chimes in. “There’s even an art room. And a gym. Why offer all that to people who’ve committed violent crimes?”

“Because punishment isn’t the only goal,” she says softly. “Redemption matters too.”

“These men have already been punished,” Shirley continues. “They’re here because they made choices that cost them their freedom. But if we lock them away and throw away the key, what happens when they get out?”

A few students straighten or glance away, unsettled by the question.

“Recidivism.” She lets the word hang. “Reoffending. Falling back into the same cycle of violence and crime.”

“So… this is about giving them a second chance?” someone asks.

Shirley nods. “In a way, yes. But it’s more than that. It’s about breaking the cycle. Giving them the tools they need to make different choices if they ever get another chance.”

I jot down notes, gliding my pen smoothly across the page, but my mind drifts, barely registering the words forming beneath the tip.

Because while Shirley talks about redemption and second chances, my mind drifts to Zane. I press my pen harder against the paper, the words blurring as I stare down at my notes without really seeing them.

Is there a chance for him?

Could someone like Zane ever change?

The idea feels ridiculous, almost laughable. Zane doesn’t want redemption. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He doesn’t regret the blood on his hands, and I don’t think he ever will.

But what if…

What if there’s a version of him—buried so fucking deep that even he doesn’t know it exists—that wants something more?

Something better.

But no matter how many scenarios I run through in my head, they all lead back to the same dead end.

Zane doesn’t want out.

He thrives in this world. It’s where he belongs, where he’s always belonged.

And as much as I hate him for everything, he’s done…

A part of me wishes it were different.

Tria’s elbow nudges into my arm, jolting me from the endless loop of thoughts.

“Let’s go.”

I blink, my eyes reluctantly dragging from the half-filled page of notes. The ink’s smudged where my pen pressed too hard.

“Shirley said we could explore,” Tria adds, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “We’re supposed to meet back here in an hour.”

“Yeah,” I force a nod. “I heard.”

She gives me a look. Not quite convinced.

I snap my notebook shut and follow her out. The occasional chatter drifts from down the hall. Guards keep an eye on us, not with suspicion but with the careful gaze meant for things easily broken.

We step through the double doors as a guard guides us toward the garden.

It’s the last thing I expected to see here. Sunlight spills across neatly kept hedges and patches of wildflowers. Gravel paths wind through manicured lawns, and wooden benches are scattered beneath tall trees that sway lazily in the breeze.

It doesn’t belong here.