Page 64 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE BEAUTY

W hat the fuck is wrong with me?

I’m a fucking idiot who should’ve left. I tried, but I didn’t run.

The second I hesitated, I sealed my own fate. Every step I took deeper into this was a choice I can’t take back. My mind keeps clawing for a way out, but my body’s stuck, frozen somewhere between fear and stupidity.

I’ve seen enough true crime to know how this shit ends. I’ve binged every docuseries, watched every re-enactment, analyzed every detail of what not to do when you’re caught in a situation like this.

And what’s the number one mistake every girl makes?

They don’t scream.

I’ve seen it over and over.

The second they doubt themselves, start thinking they might be able to talk their way out, or believe that maybe the man holding them hostage will have a fucking change of heart.

They end up dead.

Not me.

Not when there are guards.

Not when I’m surrounded by people who could stop this before it goes any further.

I can scream.

I will fucking scream.

My lips part.

Do it.

But the second I suck in enough air to let it out a sudden, icy pressure bites at the skin on my neck, stopping me cold.

My head turns just enough to glance down, and my blood freezes at the sight of a gun pressed into the crook of my neck. Where the fuck did he get a gun?

My brain scrambles to catch up, to make sense of what’s happening, but everything slows down.

This is why.

This is why they don’t scream.

Because when you feel the cold bite of death kissing your throat, you freeze.

“Open your mouth,” Zane whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. “And I promise, good girl…”

His teeth graze the shell of my ear. The barrel of the gun digs in harder, making my pulse throb like it’s trying to break free.

“…you won’t get to close it again.”

The gun moves down, dragging along the curve of my throat, down my collarbone, until it presses against the edge of my jacket.

“Take it off.”

The words drip with dark command, slithering down my spine, and even though I stand my ground, the second the gun nudges the fabric, my body reacts before my brain can catch up.

I drag the zipper down slowly, and the jacket slips off my shoulders, hitting the floor with a muffled slump.

“Good girl.”

Zane’s praise coils around me, making my skin crawl and heat ignite in places I don’t fucking want. But it’s not the gun that scares me.

It’s me.

Because somewhere deep inside, a part of me is listening to him.

My chin lifts to meet his gaze. “I’m not scared of you.”

Woah, that came out steadier than I feel.

“I’ll scream,” I add. “And that gun?” My eyes narrow as I stare him down. “It’s a fucking prop. It’s not even real.”

The corners of his lips twitch.

Fuck.

That’s when I realize I’ve fucked up.

The moment the pressure of the gun leaves my skin, relief floods me. For half a second, I fucking believe it. My lungs expand, and my body sags slightly as I take a shaky breath.

CRACK.

The sound doesn’t come from Zane.

It comes from behind me.

My head snaps toward the mirror on the opposite wall. Spiderweb fractures spread from a perfect, clean hole dead center. But I never heard a shot. The silence that follows is deafening.

“Good girl,” Zane coos, pressing the barrel harder against my throat. The barrel isn’t cold anymore because it’s been fired. “When will you learn not to underestimate me?”

The gun presses harder, digging into the delicate skin of my neck and then he twists it.

Oh, fuck.

The metal bites into my skin, twisting just enough to make the pain flare, making me gasp before he smooths it out, replacing the bite with the warm, flat side.

Almost…

Like a love bite.

“Much better.” The gun drags down just slightly before pressing it flat against the curve of my neck.

“I told you, baby.”

The sound leaving his lips is nothing but the scrape of silk over steel now.

“I’ll make you beg for me.”

My throat dries out. No. I can’t let this happen, but my body doesn’t care about reason or survival. My nipples tighten against the lace, and the slow, aching throb between my thighs deepens until it’s all I can feel.

The barrel traces lower, slipping down the curve of my shoulder, letting the edge catch under the thin strap of my camisole.

“Let’s get this out of the way.”

The strap slides from my shoulder in a slow whisper of fabric, and the silencer follows, tracing the soft curve of my breast before slipping under the other strap, stripping it away.

My body arches into him.

“Relax,” he breathes, dragging the barrel down between my breasts, letting it trail over the lace covering my skin.

The metal is warm now, heated from the shot that shattered the mirror, but there’s still enough of a chill to make my skin erupt with goosebumps.

I feel the edge of the gun catch on the lace, pulling it slightly before he lifts it away.

“Take it off.”

I swallow hard while my hands tremble as I reach behind me.

I pull the camisole over my head, the fabric catching for a second before sliding down my arms, leaving my breasts bare and exposed

“Good girl.”

He presses the silencer flat against my nipple.

The warmth of it sinks into my skin, making my pussy clench around nothing. The barrel circles my nipple, dragging over the sensitive skin in lazy, torturous circles.

My back arches, pushing my breast into the heat of the gun.

He pulls the gun away, only to drag it over the flat plane of my stomach and down to the waistband of my tights.

My fingers hook into the waistband, pulling the fabric down my hips, letting it pool at my ankles.

My skin prickles, exposed and bare except for the lace panties that barely cover anything.

The gun finds the swell of my pussy through the panties, pressing against the damp fabric.

My hips twitch forward on instinct. The warm metal pushes into my clit, sending a jolt of electricity ripping through my nerves.

I hiss and grip the cell bars beside me.

Somehow, my body rocks into it, whether by instinct or something darker I can’t bring myself to name.

“How are you feeling right now?”

There’s no mercy hidden in the shadows of his face. He’s asking because he wants to hear me break. Because he wants me to know I’ve already surrendered.

I give him the only truth he deserves, the only truth that still exists between us.

“Captive.”

A slow smile bleeds across his mouth. I don’t even have to see it. I can feel it. He presses the barrel a little harder against my clit, coaxing a broken gasp out of me.

“Most people think captivity is cruel,” he breathes, brushing the silencer back and forth across the soaked folds, teasing the trembling edge of my body. “But they’re wrong, good girl.”

The barrel circles lazily, cruelly, building heat until I’m shaking.

“Cages don’t weaken you.”

A sob claws up my throat, but it twists into a scream the second he thrusts the silencer a hair’s breadth inside.

“They remind you that some kinds of love are meant to be survived, not escaped.”

Instead of giving me what my body’s begging for, he retreats the barrel and drags the silencer through my folds, making sure I feel every cruel inch of what he’s making me survive.

“You think you’re chained to me.” The gun thrusts against my folds harder, grinding into my clit with brutal precision until another broken, wrecked scream tears from my throat. “But the truth is—”

He pulls me back against him, forcing my spine to bow painfully against his chest, his mouth dragging across the side of my neck, burning every inch it touches.

“I’m chained to you.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the hollow of my shoulder.

“And I’d wrap these chains around my own throat just to feel closer to you,” he rasps, dragging the silencer between my legs again, soaking it in my ruin. “You’re the fucking sentence I’d spend a thousand lifetimes serving and still beg for more.”

The gun lifts away from my clit and the sudden absence shatters the fragile control holding me together. My body cries out for him, but I clamp my teeth down on the scream, swallowing it whole, burying it so deep it burns.

If I open my mouth now, I’ll beg him. Beg him to shove the gun back inside me. Beg him to ruin me so thoroughly that even the pieces left behind would still belong to him.

So instead, I seize onto the part of him that sounds almost as desperate as I feel.

“Does that mean...I’m your prison?”

For a moment, everything stops breathing. He presses his forehead to the side of my head and answers with a truth ripped from somewhere deep in his bones.

“You’re not only my prison, baby,” he rasps. “You’re my fucking resurrection.”

He turns me around with a harsh grip on my shoulder. My back slams into the bars. The gun disappears. His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes my lips. The softness of it knocks the air from my lungs harder than anything else he’s done.

What I wouldn’t give to feel his lips on mine.

I try to focus. His thumb rests against my mouth, dragging across the seam, desperate to tear it open and pour sin down my throat. I remember his mouth between my legs, his tongue moving with a hunger that belonged nowhere but inside me. I’d screamed his name. I’d tasted heaven and hell at once.

I want him and every desperate beat of my heart is proof of it, but if I give in now, it means I’m willing. Not forced. Not cornered. Not a victim of circumstance. So, I choose being a victim because being a wronged saint is much better than being a willing sinner.

Zane’s hand reaches up, threading beneath the curtain of my hair. Fingers curl, knotting tight at the nape of my neck. He yanks back just enough to tip my head, exposing my throat, making my breath hitch. His body presses into mine, bare chest searing against my tits.

“Get on your knees.”