Page 9 of Craving Venom (The Venomous Beauty Trilogy #1)

“Nope,” she interrupts quickly. “No excuses. I’m not letting you hermit your way through life. You’re coming. Period.”

My first instinct is to say no, but the truth is, she’s not entirely wrong. I do need to get out more—have a life beyond dissecting the minds of criminals and burying myself in my obsession with their twisted logic. It’s not like I have anything better to do.

“Fine,” I mutter, already regretting it.

“Perfect! I’ll text you the details,” she chirps. “And Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to have fun. Even if it fucking kills you.”

She hangs up before I can change my mind. I stare at my phone for a moment, then toss it onto the desk with a groan. A day off, and now I’m spending it with my best friend and her new boyfriend . Great.

I shake my head and turn back to my laptop. The screen lights up, and before I can talk myself out of it, I type Zane’s name into the search bar. The video of his trial pops up immediately. My stomach flips as I click on it.

The courtroom feed fills my screen, and the first thing I notice isn’t the judge or the lawyers.

It’s the crowd. Rows of people—mostly girls, beautiful girls—dressed to the nines, like this is some red-carpet premiere and not a fucking murder trial.

Some of them are holding little signs with Zane’s name on them, like this is some twisted fan club meeting.

It’s sick. They’re cheering for a guy accused of slaughtering his own mother and brother. My stomach churns as I watch one girl blow a kiss toward where Zane is seated, like he’s a rockstar instead of an alleged killer.

And, of course, Zane laps it up. He leans back in his chair with that ever-present smirk plastered on his face as he scans the room. He looks like he’s about to wink at one of them, and I swear my eye twitches.

“Fucking psycho,” I mutter under my breath.

The sound of a gavel slamming snaps my attention back to the trial. The judge, an older man with a perpetually grim expression, clears his throat.

“Before we begin, I’ve been informed that Mr. Christopher Valehart, the defendant’s lead attorney, will not be available for the duration of this trial,” he announces. “Miss Kessler, can you confirm this?”

The camera cuts to Yvette Kessler, Zane’s attorney. She stands with icy professionalism. “That is correct, Your Honor. Mr. Valehart’s team and I will be handling the defense in his absence.”

The judge nods, unimpressed. “Very well. Let’s proceed.”

Carrie Loeser, the prosecutor, rises and steps to the middle of the courtroom, addressing the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today you will hear about greed. About betrayal. About a man who, for all his charm and charisma, cared for no one but himself. Zane Valehart didn’t just murder his family. He executed them, all for a five-hundred-billion-dollar inheritance.”

She lets that sink in for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the jury.

“This isn’t a case about doubt. It’s about justice. Justice for Isabella Valehart, people’s princess, and Alex Valehart, an innocent child. I intend to prove, beyond any doubt, that Zane’s actions were calculated, cold, and utterly devoid of remorse.”

There’s a ripple of tension in the room. Even through the screen, I can feel it.

Then Yvette steps up and smooths down her blazer.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she begins, her voice measured and confident. “The prosecution will try to paint Zane Valehart as a monster. A greedy, remorseless killer who murdered his family for a five-hundred-billion-dollar inheritance. But that story? It’s absurd.”

She lets the word hang in the air for a moment, glancing at each juror, daring them to disagree.

“Zane Valehart didn’t need to kill anyone for that inheritance.

He was already set to acquire it. In fact, as of today—his seventeenth birthday—he has acquired it.

There was no motive, no reason for him to commit these heinous acts.

The prosecution’s narrative is built on speculation and emotional manipulation, not evidence. ”

I scoff under my breath. Yeah, right.

The prosecution wastes no time calling their first witness. Detective Ray Jordan. He’s in his mid-forties, with a stocky build and a face that looks like it’s seen way too much. He’s sworn in, and Carrie starts her questioning.

“Detective Jordan, please state your name and title for the court.”

“Raymond Jordan, lead detective on this case.”

“And were you the first officer on the scene?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Carrie takes a few steps closer, her heels clicking against the courtroom floor. “Can you describe what you found upon arriving?”

Jordan exhales, his hands gripping the edges of the witness stand. “I found Zane Valehart and his two friends, Gabriella and Luke, standing outside the VonKrauss estate. They had called 911 to report that Zane’s mother, Isabella, and his younger brother, Alex, had been shot and killed.”

He glances toward Zane. “What stood out to me immediately was Zane’s demeanor. He was calm. Too calm. He didn’t shed a single tear.”

Carrie tilts her head. “Did that strike you as unusual?”

“Extremely. Most people in that situation are hysterical. Zane just… stood there. Like he was waiting for something.”

“And what did you do next, Detective?”

“I questioned Zane and his friends. Zane claimed he’d spent the night at Luke’s house with Ella.

He said he had planned to take his father’s car as a sort of teenage rebellion, but when he saw the lights were still on in the house, he decided to wait.

He said he fell asleep and woke up close to dawn, then went to Luke’s place without the car. ”

“And did you believe him?”

Jordan hesitates. “At the time, I didn’t have a reason not to. But something about his story felt… off.”

“What did you do next?”

“I went back to the crime scene to take a closer look.” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “That’s when I noticed the library. One of the shelves was ajar, and it looked like some items were missing. That shelf held the family’s collection of antique weapons.”

“Were you able to locate any of the missing items?”

“Yes. The murder weapon—a rare Colt revolver—was found buried a few yards away, under a bush near the estate.”

The room goes still. Even I stop breathing for a second.

“And did you find anything that contradicted Zane’s story about his whereabouts that night?” Carrier presses.

Jordan nods. “Yes. Based on the timeline, there’s a window of several hours where Zane’s alibi doesn’t hold up. He had the opportunity and the means to commit these murders.”

Carrie steps closer to the jury, her pitch rising just enough to drive her point home.

“So, Detective Jordan, in your professional opinion, Zane Valehart’s calm demeanor, his inconsistent alibi, and the discovery of the murder weapon all point to one conclusion: that he murdered his mother and brother in cold blood. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jordan says firmly.

Zane’s face flashes on the screen again, and I swear I see the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Another text from Zane lights up my phone, and I groan.

This back-and-forth we’ve got going? It’s exhausting.

The guy’s a master at saying a whole lot of nothing while somehow keeping me hooked.

I toss my phone on the desk like it’s radioactive and rub my temples.

He’s officially in my head now, and I hate it.

I glance at the time and decide I need a fucking break. That’s how I find myself in front of Tria’s door. Normally, I’d just barge in, but I’m too tired to deal with her screeching if she and Xaden are in the middle of… whatever it is they do. I actually knock for once.

The door swings open, and there’s Xaden, shirtless and clearly surprised to see me. His dark brows lift, and for a second, neither of us says anything. It’s awkward as hell.

“Uh, hey,” I manage, trying not to make this weirder than it already is. “Tria here?”

He steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. “Yeah. She’s just setting up the movie.”

I walk in, avoiding eye contact with him because, Jesus, why does he have to look like he just stepped out of a fitness ad? Tria’s across the room, balancing a giant bowl of popcorn on one hip and fiddling with the TV remote.

“Faith!” she chirps, setting the bowl on the coffee table. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

“Well, here I am,” I mutter, collapsing onto the couch.

She grins and hands me the popcorn. “We’re doing horror night. Xaden brought his collection.”

Xaden plops down on the other side of the couch. He grabs a box of DVDs from the floor and starts rifling through them. “Pick your poison,” he says, holding up a handful of cases.

I scan the options—slashers, supernatural shit, psychological thrillers. Nothing I haven’t seen before. I point to one at random. “That one.”

“Solid choice,” he says, popping it into the player.

Tria grabs the remote and turns off the lights. “Okay, everyone shut up. It’s starting.”

The movie kicks off with a creepy violin score and some generic exposition about a cursed house. On-screen, a group of teenagers is making every bad decision in the book, wandering into dark basements and ignoring obvious red flags.

“This is so predictable,” I mumble under my breath.

Xaden smirks. “What, not scared?”

“Please. This movie’s about as scary as a toddler with a butter knife.”

Tria shushes us, tossing a piece of popcorn at my head. I roll my eyes but shut up.

As the movie drags on, I find myself zoning out completely. The plot is a mess, the scares are cheap, and I’m more invested in the pattern on the rug than whatever’s happening on-screen. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I sneak a glance at the screen. Another text from Zane.

I don’t open it, but my curiosity is already getting the better of me. His messages, for all their frustrating vagueness, are more compelling than this shitty excuse for a horror flick. I blame the movie for being so goddamn boring.