Page 7 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

Still, my fingers hover over the keyboard longer than I’d like to admit. A lesser woman might’ve come back with a flustered apology, or worse, coy little praise for the dangerous bad boy routine. Not this one.

Fine. Let’s see how far she’ll go before she cracks.

Big words for someone who probably reads books about finding herself over chai lattes.

Let me guess you’re another doe-eyed optimist who thinks my face is the reason why I never could have done the things I did.

Not my fault the world handed me a jawline while skipping your personality. But hey, nice try.

Mark snorts behind me, and I glare.

“What?”

“Nothing, man,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Just can’t wait to see what this one says back.”

The reply lands faster than I expect.

Cute, but no. I’m well aware you’re capable of far worse.

Your face is irrelevant and so is your ego, for that matter.

What’s interesting is the effort it must’ve taken to make yourself sound so blasé about the world.

If you weren’t so busy dodging accountability, I might even call it admirable. But, as you said, nice try.

For someone who doesn’t want to ‘fix me’, you seem awfully invested. Let’s drop the act. You’re curious. You want to know what makes me tick. They all do. But don’t get too close, Doc. You might find out why I’m the way I am. And trust me, you won’t like it.

The screen stays silent for longer than I expected. Mark drums his fingers on the desk, eyeing me like I’m some circus act.

“She’s typing,” I mutter, keeping my eyes locked on the tiny indicator that flickers at the bottom of the screen. It’s almost hypnotic.

“Or,” Mark adds, “she’s crafting her big fuck you to show she’s the smartest one in the room.”

The ping finally lands.

There’s a peculiar arrogance in believing that the world won’t like what it sees when it looks at you.

It’s not fear of rejection, it’s hope for validation.

Your crimes, your persona, they all point to one thing: you need the world to understand you’re different.

Not in the ‘special snowflake’ way, but in the ‘you can’t sit with us’ kind of way.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell me, what do you think separates you from the rest of humanity?

Is it your willingness to embrace the darkness, or is it your belief that the darkness makes you more?

“Damn. She’s not backing down, huh?”

I let out a short laugh, more a growl than anything else. “She’s trying to play shrink through email.”

I crack my knuckles again, the sharp pops cutting through the quiet. Time to remind her who she’s dealing with.

The difference between me and the rest of humanity?

I don’t lie to myself. You all walk around pretending the world is fair, that morality isn’t just a leash we put on the weak to keep them in line.

Me? I cut the leash a long time ago. I don’t pretend to care about the light because I know it’s just a distraction from what’s real.

You want to talk about darkness? Fine. Here’s a lesson: Humanity’s greatest trick isn’t kindness; it’s the ability to mask cruelty behind it.

I’m just honest about who I am. Does that makes me worse? Or does it make me free?

The reply comes faster this time.

Your ‘honesty’ about the darkness you embrace isn’t noble—it’s lazy. It takes courage to carry the weight of light in a world so steeped in shadow. But I’m curious, Zane. Do you believe in anything, or have you convinced yourself that belief is a weakness, too?

“Damn, Zane. She’s got you by the balls.”

I glare at him, then turn back to the screen.

Fascinating. You talk about light and courage as if they mean something.

But the truth is, your ‘light’ only exists because people like me give you something to measure it against. Without the dark, there’s no contrast. Oh, and let me tell you something about the light, Faith.

It’s a trap. It blinds you, lulls you into a false sense of security.

The only thing more dangerous than the dark is believing you’re safe from it.

You asked if I believe in anything. I believe in power.

The power to shape your world, to rise above the mediocrity of people clinging to their illusions.

And before you start throwing around words like ‘lazy,’ remember this I don’t hide from what I am. I live it.

“You sound like a Saturday morning cartoon villain.”

“You don’t get it.”

The reply pings almost instantly, as if she’s been waiting.

Power without control is meaningless, Zane.

It’s a storm that tears through everything in its path, leaving nothing but destruction behind.

You think you’re free because you’ve embraced your darkness, but freedom isn’t just about cutting ties, it’s about understanding the consequences of your choices and owning them.

It’s almost cute how much you believe your own bullshit.

And it’s almost tragic how much you don’t.

I shove the chair back so hard it scrapes across the concrete floor with a deafening screech. Mark’s eyes widen, but I’m already moving, heading for the cell block door.

“Zane?” he calls after me.

I don’t answer. I need air, not that you can really breathe in this place. The whole building reeks of sweat, despair, and too many lives spent rotting in the system. But even stale, recycled prison air is better than whatever the fuck Faith just shoved down my throat.

Shouts and curses rip through the air as I move through the yard. A couple of guards linger on the outskirts, looking about as motivated as a sloth on a caffeine crash. This place doesn’t run on law and order; it runs on apathy and fear.

Mark’s right behind me, hesitantly scuffing his boots against the ground. He stops next to me, fidgeting on his feet. There’s a couple of guys on the ground, and it’s hard to tell if they’re out cold or just regrouping.

Mark crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, glancing at me. His jaw’s working like he’s chewing over a thought he’s not sure he wants to say.

“Rookie,” I say, dry as hell. “Don’t even think about it.”

He doesn’t look at me, just keeps watching the brawl. “This could get out of hand. We should—”

Before he can finish that stupid sentence, some idiot lets out a feral yell as he slams another guy into the chain-link fence. The sound of the metal rattling echoes across the yard, and Mark shrinks back.

Then he takes a step forward.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I grab his collar, yanking him back so hard he stumbles. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“We can’t just stand here!” he snaps. “This could get ugly. We need to do something.”

I chuckle stepping closer until I’m in his face. “Ah, always the fucking hero, huh? Tell me, Marcus, what’s in it for you? You expecting a gold star? A pat on the back? Or maybe they’ll name a fucking wing after you. ‘Mark’s Moron Memorial.’ Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

He shoves my hand off his collar. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing? In here, rookie, the right thing and the foolish thing often overlap. You jump in there, you think they’re going to thank you? No. They’ll stomp your ass into the ground for the fun of it, and you’ll deserve it”

“Maybe. But at least I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror.”

I sneer, crossing my arms. “Yeah, well, good luck finding one that ain’t already cracked.”

Once I’m sure Mark isn’t going to throw himself headfirst into that mess, I straighten up, shoving my hands in my pockets.

My eyes swipe back to the brawl. Some asshole lands a punch so hard the other guy’s head snaps back like a goddamn Pez dispenser.

Blood sprays, splattering the dirt, and the crowd roars.

“The idealist in the den of wolves,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “How fucking noble.”

“You were better with that girl,” he says quietly.

My head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he replies. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I hate the look he’s giving me. “You were actually tolerable when you were talking to her. At least you showed a glimmer of humanity.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh, stepping toward him.

“Humanity?” I echo. “You think I owe these fucking vermin any semblance of humanity? Look around, Marco. They’re here for a reason.

Every single one of them. And if you’re so goddamn eager to play hero, be my guest. But don’t come crying to me when you’re lying on the ground with a shiv in your gut. ”

“You’re right, Zane. There’s no point trying to reason with you. You’re just as much a part of this place as the rest of us.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even look back. Just keeps going until he disappears around the corner.

Good.