Page 73 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE MONSTER

T he rain slicks my gloves as I crouch against the rear service wall of The Aether Club.

Pinks and purples bleed down the alley, spilling across the pavement.

The back of the club is nothing but dumpsters, security cameras, a rusted utility ladder bolted into the wall, a half-hearted excuse for an escape route.

“Camera blind spot in three... two... now,” Terry speaks in my ear.

I hook a rope to the drainpipe and scale it with practiced ease because I’ve done this a hundred times. My boots don’t make a sound. I stop beneath the third-floor vent, fish the can of acid spray from my belt, and fog the sensor until the lens pops and sizzles.

I jam the flathead under the vent cover and wedge it loose.

Terry croons in my ear, already pulling blueprints, recalculating thermal reads.

I slide inside and land in the ceiling crawlspace above the private lounges.

The music pulses through the floor, a heartbeat built on bass, drowning in sex and secrets.

“This place’s got a heartbeat,” I whisper.

“It’s got more than that,” Terry murmurs. “You’re crawling over thirty-two million dollars in laundering and pussy. Don’t fuck it up.”

I smirk.

Not unless fucking it up is the point.

I slip through the shaft and kick out the next vent cover. With the rope in hand I descend slowly and land in a hallway bathed in red light that stains everything.

Target one: security asshole with a hard-on for young tits.

He’s stationed by the north door with one hand halfway down his pants, eyes locked on the camera feeds.

I move behind him and wrap the cord around his throat.

With one swift jerk his spine pops and his dick wilts as I drag his body behind a supply cabinet and use his shirt to wipe the blood from the corner.

“Target down,” I announce.

“The next one’s patrolling the east corridor with his gun on the left and a limp on the right from a shoulder injury last month,” Terry feeds me the details.

I duck into the hallway, flick the switchblade from my boot. The second guard’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

I shove the blade through his side, sliding it between the ribs and up into the lung. He gasps, but the sound never makes it past his throat. I catch his body as it drops, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other twisting the knife, just for fun.

“You’re clear to breach lounge door. Thermal shows two heat signatures, one standing, one seated.”

I wipe the blade on the dead guard’s shirt, tuck it back into my boot, and move. The hallway bends left, a sharp turn leading straight to the lounge door

I release the lock, and find two guards standing between me and the final door. But their eyes snap to me half a second too late. My silencer’s already aimed.

Two suppressed thuds echo through the room, and two bodies hit the floor, dropping as heavy and useless as sacks of meat.

I step over them without slowing down. Blood pools beneath one’s neck, steaming in the low red light. The only thing standing between me and John Bailey is four inches of reinforced oak and a lock that wants to play games.

“Locked,” I grit.

“I know,” Terry’s in my ear again. “D.O.M’s changed the sequence protocol again. But they’re arrogant pricks. Still using the same mainframe.”

I press my gloved hand to the scanner beside the door. “Tell me you’ve got a back door.”

“I’ve got more than that. You’re gonna hotwire the override relay. Panel to your left, pop the cover.”

I snap it open with the butt of my gun, exposing the wires behind it. My fingers move through insulation, rerouting Terry’s instructions through my muscle memory. We’ve done this before.

D.O.M knows I know their patterns. They expect me to come.

But after every initiation, they still book The Aether Club for handover. Same place. Same blood-soaked routine. Like tradition makes it sacred.

I don’t give a fuck about their reasons.

I’m just here to end it.

The lock clicks open and the door swings inward, spilling thick air into the hallway.

Velvet and leather wrap around me, heavy with the stink of pussy and power, hitting me low in the gut as I step inside.

The walls bleed deep red, and gold fixtures cast a soft, ugly light across every twisted corner.

Crystal glasses litter the tables, ashtrays overflow with half-burned cigars, and two security cameras blink dumb and blind from the shadows above, watching nothing, seeing even less.

And right in the middle of the room is John Bailey.

He’s lounging on a black leather couch. His expensive suit is lying wrinkled on the floor. A girl’s on his lap. Her tits are out. Her hair’s a tangled halo. Her skin’s pale and shaking. She’s straddling him, positioned exactly where someone wanted her.

Nina.

Her eyes are hollow.

Not blank. Hollow. As if someone scooped the soul out and left the shape behind.

She doesn’t even react when I step in.

“Ella,” I mutter into the comm. “Room’s cleared. Come get her.”

Bailey finally looks up.

His smug expression dies the second our eyes meet.

He tries to shift beneath Nina, adjusting his cock. Like he hasn’t realized the air just changed. His hand slides toward the inside of his coat.

Wrong move.

I raise my gun a fraction, just enough for him to freeze. My finger stays firm on the trigger, aimed dead center between his eyes.

“I wouldn’t. Unless you want your brains sprayed across this velvet fuck palace.”

He grits his teeth. “Do you know who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are. That’s why I’m here.”

The door opens behind me, soft bootsteps press into the carpet as Ella walks in. Her braid is tight, her jaw even tighter, as she heads straight for Nina

Bailey tries to grab Nina’s arm, twisting in his seat to block her from Ella as if he’s suddenly grown a conscience. “She stays,” he growls. “You can’t just walk in here and take—”

Ella’s elbow cracks into his throat before he finishes.

He chokes on his breath.

She yanks Nina upright with a grip that's strong but gentle, bracing her with one hand at the waist and the other under her arm. Nina stumbles as her legs are barely able to hold her up.

“You fucking bitch!” Bailey lunges at Ella, clawing toward her ankle.

She kicks him in the face.

His head snaps back against the leather and his nose bursts in a spray of blood as he slumps forward groaning.

Ella guides Nina to the hallway, glancing back once, just long enough to give me a nod.

I nod back.

Door closes behind them.

Now it’s just me and Bailey.

And I haven’t even started.

I head to the bar while Bailey wriggles like a busted worm behind me.

He thinks I’m walking away. That maybe Ella took my sense of justice with her.

He’s wrong.

I don’t even look at him as I step behind the bar and eye the top shelf. The place is stocked with pretentious whiskeys and designer vodkas.

But the tequila calls to me.

I grab the thick-glassed bottle by the neck and rip the cork out with my teeth. The liquor hits my tongue like fire, bitter enough to remind me I’m still human.

Behind me, I hear Bailey dragging his limp body toward the door. His gasps hitch every time he moves wrong, which is every time.

I set the bottle down, then smile.

The next sip isn’t for me.

I whip the bottle across the room.

It shatters against the wall in a spray of shards and golden booze.

Bailey freezes when I walk in his direction. I grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him back across the floor, back to the velvet-lined circle where the couch still drips Nina’s stolen warmth.

He kicks weakly. I slam his head into the floor and his groan melts into the carpet.

“I’m tired of cutting men the old way,” I ponder. “You know how many assholes I’ve gutted? It’s getting boring.”

I grab one of the long shards from the broken bottle. Then I reach for the metal poker near the fireplace. I hold the glass over the flame, turning it slow.

“Do you know what happens to glass when it melts?” I ask softly, watching the edges soften. “It doesn’t just get hot. It gets hungry. It wants skin. It wants to sink in and stay.”

The curve begins to sag at the center.

“You’ve got one job tonight, Bailey. Talk.”

He spits blood. “Go fuck yourself.”

I smile. “We’ll start with your stomach.”

I press the softened glass into the flesh of his stomach, just left of center.

His screams echo against the velvet walls.

“Terry?” I ask into the comm. “Sound dampeners active?”

“Done. No one’s hearing a thing.”

He bucks under me, but I shove my elbow into his throat until he gags on his own panic. The glass sizzles into muscle and a blister forms instantly.

“Tell me about D.O.M.”

He wheezes. “You think you scare me, freak?”

I don’t answer.

Instead, I grab another shard and heat it. This one’s thinner at the tip. It trembles between my fingers before I press it just below his rib.

And then I sink it in.

“You don’t know how far it goes,” he chokes. “You don’t know who is involved—”

“I know exactly how far it goes.” I finish embedding the last piece of glass just above his navel. He convulses, trying to crawl, but I pin him down with one knee. “I know every name you’ve sold. Every girl you’ve processed. Every innocent life you’ve broken for your fucking Dominicus.”

I grab another shard, longer this time, and heat it until the edges pulse orange. Without hesitation, I press it against the right side of his stomach, just beneath the ribs. His skin sears on contact, a wet, gasping sob slipping past his cracked lips.

“Please!” Bailey finally screams, voice cracking. “Stop—I didn’t even want this!”

I push harder, slower, twisting the shard as it sinks deeper, fixing it into him.

“Then why are you in it?” I ask, watching the sweat gather in the hollows of his eyes. “Why did you sign girls over to be broken?”

He bucks weakly beneath me, blood soaking the floor.

“Dominicus said we were building a city. An empire. They called it Volis. They sold it like it was the future, an off-grid sanctuary for the rich and untouchable. Without any laws, government or extradition. A city built in the shadows, run on crypto and bloodless transactions. They promised neon towers lit by black-market tech, clinics that never asked questions, ports that moved product without customs, and brothels that doubled as political leverage. Investors came in droves. Bankers, developers, even ex-intelligence. Everyone bought in, thinking they were part of a clean criminal elite.”

My jaw tightens. Not at the mention of brothels or bloodless deals, I expected that. Assumed they did it for the power, the pleasure, the sickness.

But it wasn’t even that.

It was greed.

“And girls.”

“We didn’t know at first,” he croaks, trembling. “We didn’t know we’d be labeled ‘masters.’ They made it sound clean. By the time we realized what Dominicus really wanted, it was already too late. They owned us.”

“You didn’t want this?” I repeat. “You just wanted returns.”

Bailey’s breathing staggers.

“You let them break girls,” I continue, twisting the shard deeper until he shrieks, “so your offshore account could stay in the black.”

He tries to shake his head, but I slam my palm against his throat, pinning him down.

“I thought I was coming for monsters,” I whisper. “Turns out I’m just knee-deep in fucking cowards.”

I don’t wait for him to plead again. I reach for the next shard and place it with precision, one after another, a grotesque mosaic stitching itself into the ruin of his body.

“Tell me who the Dominicus is.”

His head lolls. “We don’t know. No one does. You think I’d be stuck doing deliveries if I had that kind of access?”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m not lying. The Dominicus doesn’t show. He speaks through firewalls, through fucking burner servers hosted out of god-knows-where. His systems are rigged with voice modulators. Proxy chains. No one knows his name. He only comes to one thing.”

I thread all the glass pieces together with copper wire, looping the barbs into a lattice across his lower belly, tight enough to pull skin in directions it wasn’t made to stretch.

“The Quadrennial.”

I pull the wire tight. His stomach rips in crisscrossed tears. Blood pours down the slope of his abdomen, soaking his cock and thighs. He’s sobbing now.

“You know about… the auction?”

My silence is all the answer he needs.

“You were at the last auction,” I mutter. “Tell me how to get in.”

“There’s a screening,” he wheezes. “A vetting system. You don’t just walk in. You need credentials.”

“You have ten seconds to give me more than that.”

He sobs.

“I have a face code,” he blurts. “It’s tied to my auction profile. They scan your face on entry, match it to your encrypted identity. No name. Just the biometric pattern. I’ve got the data key in my watch. It syncs to the entry program once you step through the scanner.”

I snatch his wrist. Snap the watch from his arm. It’s sleek, black, nothing fancy because fancy doesn’t survive blood.

I pocket it.

“How do I spoof your face?” I mutter.

He blinks. “You—you can’t. It’s mapped to my bone structure.”

I grin.

Then I grab his face.

His scream hits the ceiling when I drive the blade beneath his chin and peel the skin back in jagged slices. Not enough to kill. Not yet. The red floods down his throat like ink on silk.

“Please,” he gasps, snot bubbling from his nose. “Please, I gave it to you. I gave you the key.”

“And now,” I slice a flap of cheek away, “you’ll give me silence.”

Terry crackles in my ear. “Zane... you actually planning to wear that motherfucker’s face?”

I pull a heat-sealed mask kit from my bag, the kind that comes vacuum-locked in sterile foil.

When I peel it open, the mask unrolls in my hands.

It is thin, pliable, skin-toned film with embedded circuits running just beneath the surface.

It looks like latex and tech got stitched together in a lab too deep underground to have ethics.

This isn’t off-the-shelf gear. It’s facial mimicry tech that is adaptive, real-time, and dangerous.

You press it to your skin and it syncs to your bone structure, scans your face, then reconfigures to replicate whoever you feed into it.

Eyes, jawline, even blinking patterns. I stole it from someone worse than the people we’re hunting now.

“Not planning. Already working on it.”

Bailey chokes one last time. I don’t bother giving him a clean death.

He dies knowing his face is my invitation.

This time, I’m getting in.

And I’m not leaving until the Dominicus begs for a name.