Page 6 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MONSTER

“ T his,” I say, spreading my arms wide as we step into the yard, “is where all the magic happens, Mario. Fights, deals, alliances. Everything worth a damn in here starts or ends right here.”

Mark stiffens beside me. “It’s Mark.”

I glance at him. “I give a shit?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t press it. Smart move.

Mark’s eyes scan the clusters of inmates scattered across the yard. He stays close, though, as though he’s afraid someone might jump at him the second he strays too far.

“Over there,” I nod toward a group by the weights, “that’s where the meatheads hang out. You want to get big and scary but lose all your brain cells in the process, that’s your spot.”

One of the guys catches him staring and grins, flashing a row of teeth that look like they’ve bitten through more than just food. His eyes linger on Mark like he’s fresh meat. I make a point of staring him down, and he looks away.

“Don’t stare,” I smirk. “Unless you’re looking to get introduced to their fists.”

“Right.”

We keep walking, passing a group huddled near the corner of the yard. They stop talking as we approach.

“And that,” I point out, “is where you go if you need something. Drugs, a shiv, information. You name it, they’ve got it. Just be ready to pay up, because nothing’s free in here.”

Mark glances at them, then quickly averts his eyes when one of the guys raises an eyebrow.

I chuckle. “Relax, Matty. No one’s going to fuck with you while you’re with me.”

“Comforting,” he bites out, but there’s a trace of sarcasm in his tone.

We round the corner, and I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. Finally, I glance sideways at him. “Are you going to ask, or are you just going to keep pretending you don’t want to?”

“Ask what?”

I stop walking, and turn to face him. He halts, his face tight, like he knows exactly where this is going but doesn’t want to play his cards just yet.

“You’ve been eyeing me as if I’m some kind of ticking time bomb ever since Trent opened his big fucking mouth,” I say. “So go ahead. Spit it out.”

Mark shifts uncomfortably, his jaw working. Finally, he mutters, “You killed him, didn’t you? Jared.”

“Didn’t you hear? Poor bastard died of sickness.”

“Bullshit. Nobody just drops dead like that in here.”

I take a step closer, invading his space, and his breath hitches. “Careful, kid,” I say softly. “You’re starting to sound like you want proof.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, surprising me. “I just wanted to know. That’s all.”

I cock my head, studying him. “So why are you roaming around with that expression if you don’t actually give a shit?”

“Because none of this fucking matters. You kill someone, they kill someone, the whole cycle just keeps going. What’s the fucking point?”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, huh? What the hell’s a kid like you doing in a place like this, anyway? You don’t look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out by the system yet.”

“I had everything,” he says quietly. “I was a star football player. Scouts were practically lining up to sign me.”

“And then?” I ask, though I already know the answer. There’s always an “and then.”

“And then,” he says bitterly, “I fucked it all up. I’m here, okay? That’s all that matters. I’m here, and it’s not going to get any better, so don’t waste your breath trying to tell me it will.”

For a moment, I just look at him. The kid’s raw, a bundle of anger and self-loathing wrapped up in a too-big prison uniform.

“Well,” I say finally, “you’re in the right place. This place eats up people like you, people who think they’ve got nothing to lose. So here’s a tip: you’ve got two choices. Sink or fucking swim.”

Mark doesn’t respond, but his fists clench at his sides.

“Come on,” I say, turning back toward the path. “Tour’s not over yet. You’re going to want to see the cafeteria before you decide whether to die in here or make it out alive.”

I exhale deeply as we approach my cell. Finally. The fucking tour’s over. Babysitting isn’t my idea of a good time, and this kid’s already managed to irritate me more than most.

I push open the door and step inside, but before I can shut it, Mark follows me, one foot already past the threshold.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding up a hand to stop him. “Tour’s over, rookie. Unless you’ve got a death wish, you don’t step into my space.”

“Maybe I do,” he shrugs, crossing his arms.

I bark out a laugh. “Bold move, Mario. You think walking into my cell is going to make me snap? Hate to break it to you, but you’re not that special.”

“It’s Mark,” he corrects again as he steps further inside despite my warning, then stops dead in his tracks with his mouth hanging open like a fish.

I can’t help the smirk that creeps onto my face. It’s always the same reaction when people see the murals and they don’t know what to do with it.

The walls are covered in them. A stormy ocean on one side, a phoenix rising from the ashes on the other. Every inch is filled with movement and meaning, layers of color and chaos that somehow come together perfectly.

Mark looks at me, then back at the walls, then at me again. “You did this?”

“Nah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The mural fairy came by last night. Left me a masterpiece and a bag of magic beans.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I mean… this doesn’t exactly scream ‘cold-blooded killer.’”

“Oh, yeah? And what does a cold-blooded killer scream, exactly? Blood spatters and skulls? Maybe a ‘Welcome to Hell’ banner over the door?”

“You’re not exactly what I expected,” he admits, still staring at the walls like he’s trying to figure out how they’re even real.

“And you’re exactly what I expected,” I shoot back.

Mark’s eyes land on the old computer tucked in the corner of my cell, and his brows lift. “Wait, is that… a computer?”

I follow his gaze and snort. “What, never seen one before, rookie?”

He ignores the jab, stepping closer. “Does it work?”

“Oh, it works. But unless you’re into dumpster fires, I wouldn’t get too excited.”

“What do you mean?”

I gesture lazily toward the screen. “That thing’s a portal to the minds of horny, desperate bitches who think they can ‘fix’ guys like us.

Or you’ll find a bunch of 13-year-olds who think they’re mature beyond their years.

Oh, and let’s not forget the haters who’ll hate you for something you did that had nothing to do with them. ”

“So, you’re saying it’s basically useless?”

“Pretty much.”

He hesitates for a second before stepping closer. “Actually… can I try it?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Knock yourself out, Milo. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I watch as he pulls up a chair and starts typing. His fingers move across the keyboard, and soon enough, he’s staring at the inbox. “Whoa, over five thousand unread messages.”

I cross my arms as I watch Mark scroll through the messages. His face shifts between curiosity and disgust, his eyes flicking over subject lines like “Rehabilitating the Misunderstood” and “A Second Chance at Redemption.”

“Five bucks says they’re all garbage,” I say.

“Not taking that bet.” Mark narrows his eyes at the screen. “This one looks different, though. ‘Psychology grad student researching criminal minds.’” He glances at me. “What do you think?”

I groan, pushing off the wall. “That category? It’s worse than the horny bitches, the try-hard kids, and the haters combined.”

Mark swivels in the chair, grinning. “Really? Worse than the haters?”

“Absolutely,” I snap. “At least the haters are honest about being assholes. Psych students? They think they’ve got us all figured out.

Like they’re fucking Sherlock Holmes with a degree.

” I sneer, pacing a few steps. “They sit there in their cozy little classrooms, reading their bullshit textbooks, thinking they understand people like us. They don’t know a damn thing. ”

Mark chuckles, shaking his head. “Touchy subject, huh?”

“Not touchy. Just fucking annoying.” I gesture toward the screen. “They’re all the same. They always try to stick a label on you. ‘Sociopath,’ ‘narcissist,’ ‘trauma victim.’ Like we’re fucking case studies instead of people.”

“So, what I’m hearing is… you’re scared of them.”

I freeze mid-step, turning slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you heard me.” He shrugs, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’re scared. Afraid they’ll hit a nerve or call you out on your bullshit.”

I laugh, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “You think I give a fuck what some wannabe shrink thinks of me?”

“Prove it,” he says, holding my gaze.

“What?”

“Reply to them.”

I scoff. “I don’t waste my time on amateurs.”

“You’re just chicken. Big, bad Zane, afraid of a little email.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Careful, kid. You’re walking a fine fucking line.”

“Come on,” he mocks. “What’s the worst that could happen? They try to ‘analyze’ you? Write some thesis about how ‘broken’ you are? Who gives a shit?”

For a moment, I just stare at him, my fists clenching at my sides. Then I smirk, pulling the chair out from under him and taking his spot.

“Fine,” I say, cracking my knuckles.

Mark watches as I start typing. My words hit the screen like punches:

Dear Aspiring Headshrinker, Congrats on choosing the most pretentious way to waste your time. If you think you can figure me out with your fancy theories and five-dollar jargon, you’re dumber than you sound. But hey, go ahead and try. This should be fun.

Seconds later, her reply pings in.

Thank you for the warm welcome. It’s good to know your ego is still alive and thriving. Pretentiousness aside, it’s always fascinating to see someone overcompensate for their inability to be understood. Don’t worry, Zane, I won’t try to ‘fix’ you. I’m here to observe.

Mark whistles low, dragging his chair closer to read over my shoulder. “Holy fuck. That’s not the reply you were hoping for, huh?”

I scoff, though my jaw tightens. “She’s trying too hard. Probably thinks it makes her sound smart.”