Page 8 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

THE BEAUTY

I wake up to the dull throb of a headache pounding behind my eyes. Fucking Zane. His words are still rattling around in my head. I groan and press the heels of my hands into my temples. Yesterday was a mistake. Letting Zane Valehart get under my skin was a blunder.

I spent half the night rereading his messages, trying to figure out if there was some twisted truth in his words.

Power, control, consequences, he speaks as though he knows the world inside out, but all I see is arrogance.

It’s infuriating. This is what I always wanted, though, right?

To get inside the mind of someone like him.

But somehow, he’s the one crawling around in mine, planting seeds of doubt I can’t seem to shake.

Could he be right?

The thought creeps in and I crush it as quickly as it comes. No, he’s not right. He’s dangerous and manipulative, and I know better than to fall for this kind of shit. I won’t let him screw with my morals.

But I can’t stop looking at the messages. My phone is sitting on the nightstand, a silent temptation. I grab it before I can overthink, scrolling back through the thread. I want to tell him he’s full of shit. I want to prove it.

My fingers hover over the screen before I finally type.

Is this what you do all day? Lurk in the shadows and throw words at people until they start questioning their sanity?

To my surprise, the reply comes almost instantly.

You think you’re losing it already? Impressive.

I’m fine.

Sure you are. In fact, I’d bet good money that you’re sitting in your bed right now with your fake glasses on, curled up under a quilt like the good little girl you are.

I stop breathing for a second. My fingers tighten around the phone as I look around the room.

My eyes dart to the corners, to the shadows that suddenly feel too dark.

I shake my head and remind myself that he’s in prison.

He’s behind bars, probably sitting in some shitty cell with a hundred miles of steel and concrete between us. There’s no fucking way he can see me.

Still, I can’t stop myself from glancing at the ceiling, at the walls, scanning for cameras. It’s ridiculous, paranoid even, but his words creep under my skin.

No. I’m not.

The lie feels hollow even as I send it, and I instantly regret it when his response comes.

Liar.

I sit straighter, gripping the phone tighter.

And now you’re sitting up, aren’t you? Fixing your posture as though that’s going to save you. Girls like you are predictable, Faith. You think you’re clever, but you’re an open book.

My pulse spikes. I stare at the screen, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

You love to think you’re brave, but the truth is, you’re scared.

You hide behind screens, media, and books pretending to be this strong, untouchable version of yourself.

You like the darkness when it’s safe, when it’s on your terms. A moody playlist, some late-night overthinking, and you think you’ve faced your demons.

But the minute the real dark shit creeps in?

The kind that doesn’t play by your rules? You fucking chicken out. Every time.

He’s wrong. He doesn’t know me. He can’t know me.

You don’t know a damn thing about me.

Don’t I?

No.

Here’s the thing, good girl. I’ve met a hundred versions of you.

You’re all the same. Smart enough to be dangerous but too soft to really handle what comes with it.

You flirt with danger because it makes you feel alive.

It makes you feel different from all the other ‘good girls’ who live their safe, boring lives.

But you’re not built for the fallout. You love the idea of danger, of dancing with the devil, but when the devil looks back at you? You hide.

You don’t scare me.

Then why are your hands shaking?

I glance down, and fuck, he’s right. My hands are trembling.

You’re full of shit.

Keep telling yourself that. But let me ask you something, if I’m so full of shit, why haven’t you blocked me yet?

He’s baiting me, and I know it. But I don’t have an answer.

Maybe I just like proving you wrong.

Or maybe you like the way it feels. That thrill, that rush when you step close enough to the edge to see what’s on the other side. Good girls like you are addicted to the danger, even when they’re too scared to admit it.

Addicted to danger? The fuck is he talking about? I’m not addicted to anything. If anything, I’m appalled by the way he twists everything, like some demented mirror that only reflects the worst parts of you.

Stop calling me a good girl. I’m not a good girl.

Sure, sure. Whatever you say... good girl .

My teeth grind, and I’m about to throw my phone across the room or maybe just hit him with a reply that’ll wipe that smug tone off his imaginary face when my phone buzzes in my hand. The name “Tria” flashes across the screen, accompanied by the sharp trill of her ringtone.

“Shit,” I mutter. Tria. Her messages. All twenty of them that I completely forgot to reply to.

With one last glance at Zane’s message, and the infuriating good girl sitting there like a challenge, I swipe to answer the call.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“Hey? Hey?” Tria’s voice is sharp enough to cut through the phone. “Faith, you ghosted me for a whole day! I thought you were dead or, I don’t know, kidnapped or something!”

“Sorry, I—”

“Twenty messages, Faith. Twenty. You better have a damn good reason, because I swear if you flaked on me for some moody crime documentary binge again—”

“It wasn’t that,” I cut in quickly. “I just... got caught up with something.”

“Caught up with what? And don’t you dare say ‘nothing.’”

“I’m not saying ‘nothing.’ It was... work stuff.” It’s not entirely a lie. Zane is technically work. Just not in the way Tria would expect.

She groans. “You’re always working. You’re going to fry your brain one of these days, Faith. You know that, right?”

I don’t answer. My gaze flickers back to the screen, where Zane’s last message is still sitting, waiting, taunting me.

“Are you even listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening,” I say quickly. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t reply. I’ll read through everything you sent and—”

“You better,” she interrupts. “And you owe me coffee for the emotional damage you’ve caused me.”

I can’t help but smile a little. “Deal. Tomorrow?”

“Deal.” Tria’s voice softens for half a second before it hardens again. “But I still hate that you ignored me. Seriously, Faith, I was about two minutes away from filing a missing persons report.”

I stretch my legs out, toes curling against the cold floor, and exhale loudly. “You know how I get sometimes. I didn’t mean to—”

“Uh-huh.” She cuts me off sharply. “But you can’t blame me for being paranoid. Especially after last night.”

My brows knit together as I scan my memory for what she’s talking about. “Last night?” I repeat slowly. And then, it clicks.

Oh, no.

“Tria, no,” I groan.

“Yeah, about that…” She drags the words out, clearly stalling.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “You don’t have to explain. Really. I’d rather you didn’t.”

“But I want to explain!” she insists. “Look, me and Xaden, we’re taking it slow, okay? It’s not, like, official or anything. I mean, I know he’s your friend, and I don’t want things to get weird between us because—”

“He’s your friend too. Boyfriend now, apparently. So, there’s nothing weird about it.”

“You’re sure? I mean, you two have always been close, and I thought maybe…”

“Stop.” My tone is sharper this time as I glance at my laptop and tap the edge of the desk with my nail. “Xaden is not my type.”

Tria exhales loudly, and I can hear the creak of her bed as she flops onto her back. “Okay. Good. Because, you know, I was worried there for a second. You walked in on us, and I thought maybe it was… I don’t know, weird for you.”

“It’s only weird because you’re making it weird.”

“Fine, fine,” she mutters before her tone lightens again. “But now that we’ve established he’s not your type… then who is your type? Trevor?”

“Trevor? Are you serious? No. God, no.”

Tria laughs—loud and obnoxious, the kind that makes my shoulders tense. “Oh my god, that bad, huh? Is this why you didn’t let the kiss turn into a full-on makeout session?”

I stiffen. “How do you even know about that?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says. “Trevor told someone, and guess what? It flew through Xaden and landed right in my lap.”

“Fuck me,” I hiss, dragging a hand down my face. “What is he, a fucking middle schooler?”

Tria laughs again, unbothered by my growing irritation. “Look, I’m just saying—if you didn’t like him, why kiss him in the first place?”

I chew the inside of my cheek, debating whether to answer.

My brain feels like static as the memory creeps in.

I don’t want to show Trevor in a bad light, but if I tell her the truth, that Zane’s stupid face and the goddamn photos from the crime scene flashed in front of my eyes at the worst possible moment, I’ll look insane.

And weak. And probably a little fucked up.

So, I don’t.

“It hasn’t even been a year since Jason. I… I wasn’t ready, that’s all.”

“Faith,” she finally says almost cautiously. “Jason’s dead. You need to move on.”

Her words hit like a slap, and guilt sinks its claws into my chest. She thinks she’s helping, and maybe she is in her own way, but all I can feel is how shitty it is to lie to her.

“I know,” I mumble.

“Then stop using him as an excuse,” she presses gently. “You deserve to be happy too, Faith. And Trevor—”

“You’re right,” I cut her off before she can go on another tirade about Trevor, of all people. The words taste bitter on my tongue, but they’re the only ones that’ll make her shut up.

Tria sighs. “Finally. Look, if you’re not doing anything tonight, come hang out with me and Xaden. Nothing crazy, just pizza and maybe a movie.”

“I don’t know, Tria—”