Page 67 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

When he finally pulls out, I sob at the sudden, aching emptiness, the loss punching through me harder than I expect.

His come spills from me in thick, wet trails, sliding down the insides of my thighs.

I try to close my legs, but Zane’s hand is already there, catching our combined juices before it can escape.

Through the blur of my tears, I watch him, watch the way his fingers shove between my folds, two of them plunging inside without hesitation, stuffing the heat and slickness back into me, refusing to let a single drop be wasted.

“I’ll have you know,” I pant, breath still ragged, “I’m not ovulating.”

“Then I guess we’ve got time to practice,” he grins.

Zane finally lets me go and my body collapses, slumping against the cell door until my bare ass hits the cold concrete floor.

He steps forward, sliding the door shut with a harsh clatter before strolling across the cell.

I watch through half-lidded eyes as he crouches down, opens a cooler tucked under his bunk, and pulls out a bottle of water while I try to gather whatever pieces of myself are still left.

My clothes are scattered with my camisole half under the bed and my bra long gone.

I tug the tights back on first. It’s a struggle.

Every movement makes me wince, but I manage it.

My camisole sticks to the sweat on my back as I pull it over my head.

Just as I reach for my jacket, a vibration from the water pipes draws my attention and when I look up, Zane is standing only a few feet away.

Water glistens at the corners of his mouth as he drinks, some of it spilling past his lips. And then— fuck me —he pours the rest straight over his face.

Cold water streams down his jaw, over his collarbone, across his chest. It follows the ridges of his abs, knowing exactly where to go, as if it was made to worship him too.

The snakes on his body gleam under the trail of water. They seem to breathe with the rise and fall of his abs. He looks like something savage. Something holy desecrated and remade with violence and lust.

I tear my eyes away from him.

If I keep staring at the water trailing down those abs like it’s being guided by sin itself, at the way those muscles pop like they’re trying to escape the cage of his skin, I’ll do something stupid.

Like fuck him again.

On my terms this time.

And that’s the most dangerous thought of all.

I reach for my jacket with fingers fumbling through the fabric and the moment I begin to stand, I feel his presence before I even see him.

Zane towers over me with his body casting a shadow beneath the light as he holds out a cold bottle of water.

I take it, and our fingers brush.

“You’re going to say you got turned around looking for the visitation desk.” I unscrew the cap and drink while listening to his cover story. “It’s on the east block. You’ll tell the guard you were looking for Processing Room 12, and someone pointed you wrong.”

“Processing Room 12?”

He nods once.

“That puts you near solitary, but not in it. You’re just a curious little intern who doesn’t know shit about wing layout. You give them that line, they’ll walk you right back to the main hallway without questions.”

My mouth opens to ask why but I stop myself because I don’t want to know.

If I start asking questions, I’ll stay, and I can’t stay.

I give him the smallest nod, my hand already curling around the latch, just about to step out when he grabs my arm and yanks me back. I slam into his chest, the force stealing the breath from my lungs. I open my mouth, but nothing comes because there’s nothing left to say.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the center of my forehead.

Then his eyes meet mine and I know I shouldn’t look, but I do.

And what I see isn’t pride or power, not even lust.

It’s begging.

His eyes hold the kind of plea no man like him should ever make. It’s not for my body, he’s already had that. It’s not for obedience. It’s not for control.

It’s for something far more dangerous.

Stay.

Choose me.

Be mine.

It presses against the inside of my chest, slinking under my ribs, carving out space it has no right to. And for a terrifying second, I want to give in.

If he really begged, I would kiss him.

Even though I’m afraid of what it would mean because that kiss would be mine. Not his. Not taken, not stolen, not forced. Mine .

And that’s the only control I have left.

So I don’t kiss him.

“Go,” he demands with a finality I feel all the way down to my core.

So I do.

But I don’t stop trembling until I’m halfway down the cell block.

I don’t even see the guard until he rounds the corner ahead, nearly colliding with me. His hand shoots to the radio clipped to his chest.

“Yeah, I found her. Missing girl’s coming up the east wing,” he says into the radio.

Missing?

He doesn’t ask questions, just gives me that half-practiced nod they’re trained to use when pretending nothing looks wrong.

“Where were you?” he asks, stepping closer.

“I got turned around looking for the visitation desk,” I parrot automatically. “Someone told me to head toward Processing Room 12. I must’ve misunderstood.”

“I’ll take you to safety.”

Safety?

I frown but follow. Every step we take, the temperature climbs. Sweat beads on the back of my neck and under camisole. The sound of the prison grows distorted, warped by distant sirens.

By the time we reach the corridor leading to the main entrance, the sounds of fire trucks and ambulances are already clear.

A wall of red and white lights blinks through the small glass panes near the exit.

The guard opens the door, and that’s when I see Tria, Xaden and Dr. Harrington.

Tria sees me and runs. I barely get a breath before she slams into me, crying like she thought she’d never see me again.

“Thank God,” she gasps into my neck. “Thank God. You’re safe. I thought,” she wheezes, and I feel her shaking. “I thought you were trapped in the fire.”

Fire?

From the corner of my eye, I see firemen running hoses toward the far-left wing. The smoke is faint but real.

“What fire?” I ask, breaking the hug. “What the hell happened?”

Before she can answer, Dr. Harrington steps forward. His gaze sweeps over me quickly, reassuring himself I’m standing there breathing.

“There was an electrical fire,” he explains, adjusting the lanyard around his neck. “Started in the storage wing—Unit 5C. Faulty wiring from the old generator system shorted, we think. The flames spread through the maintenance hallway and triggered an internal alarm around 2:06 p.m.”

He glances behind him. “We initiated evacuation protocols immediately. Most of the storage area was empty, but the smoke was thick enough to force a full clear-out of blocks 3 through 6. We’ve been moving students out for the past three hours.”

Three hours.

That’s how long I was in that cell?

“I didn’t know,” I manage. “I didn’t hear anything. I’m sorry I didn’t… I didn’t realize…”

“It’s alright,” Dr. Harrington says gently. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

He places a hand on my shoulder. “Walk with us. Let’s get you checked, make sure everything’s alright.”

I nod automatically, feet already moving to follow.

But inside?

Inside, I’m screaming.

I know Zane had something to do with that fire. He timed it. He planned it. He knew it would pull attention away from his cell long enough for no one to notice.

He burned something to get inside me.

But I ignore it.

Because if I acknowledge it, I’ll have to accept just how far he’s willing to go to keep me close.