Page 172 of Sweet Venom

It’s like I’m not here.

“Do you know who it was?” Dahlia asks, interlinking her arm with mine.

“What?”

“I heard Jude tell Kane that this has happened before.”She rubs my arm. “I thought the guard who was following you around recently was Jude being overprotective, but apparently, you were in danger. Is that true?”

“I…received a couple of texts asking me to leave and was attacked a few times, yes.”

“Was one of those times before you were in a coma?”

All this time, I’ve tried to shield Dahlia from this mess, but she ended up right in the middle of it anyway. She deserves to know the truth.

“Mario saved me back then, and he ended up in a coma.” I choke on my words as she pushes the elevator button. “Preston saved me, too. Twice. And now… Oh my God—Jude! He shielded me, didn’t he? Did something happen to him… Is he…?”

I’m panting, my chest squeezing so tightly, I think I’m having a panic attack.

“No, no.” She strokes my back, ushering me into the elevator. “He did injure his arm, but I think it’s only a graze, just like yours. He’s been in front of the OR with Kane ever since we got to the hospital.”

A long breath rushes out of me, but the weight of dread still sits on my chest like doomsday.

The elevator doors open, and we walk to the OR’s waiting area. My steps are lethargic at best, my energy waning, but I put an effort into placing one foot in front of the other.

The gloomy energy hits us as soon as we arrive.

But then yelling follows.

“Get the fuck out of here, Marcus.”

It’s Jude’s rough and furious voice.

I hear him before I see him. Then he comes into view, slamming Marcus against the wall with one hand twisted in his collar, his muscles tight with unrestrained rage.

A thick bandage wraps his arm, already soaked through, and blood clings to his T-shirt and is smeared across his ink and his knuckles like war paint.

Marcus looks even worse; his jacket is covered in blood, and the same red stains his fingers and streaks across his face, making him look like a demon dragged out of hell. His usually mocking features are blank now, drained of expression, like whatever was inside him just…switched off.

“What is Marcus doing here?” I whisper to Dahlia.

“He came during the chaos,” she murmurs back. “He showed up out of nowhere, almost as if he was hiding in the trees the whole time or something, the creep.”

“I said. I’m not going anywhere.” Marcus’s eyes spark with something violent. “If anything, you’re the one who needs to scram for failing to save him.”

“The fuck you just say?” Jude snarls in his face.

“Want me to spell it out for you?” Marcus’s tone is mocking, but his body is tight.

“Go fight outside.” An authoritative voice echoes around the room.

The man is sitting on one of the leather-padded chairs, his fingers forming a steeple at his chin. He’s a striking older version of Preston, but his presence resembles the deep ocean—calm on the outside but with a turbulent energy on the inside.

“Lawrence. He’s Preston’s dad.” Dahlia tells me in a low voice, confirming my suspicions.

Marcus’s glare slides to Lawrence, even though Jude is still strangling him by the collar.

I’ve never seen Marcus this…mad. No. Enraged is an accurate description. Granted, I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him all over the place, and he’s usually more unruffled than a monk. Even that time he showed up in the club’s parking lot, he was the one provoking Preston, not the other way around.

Right now, however, he looks at Lawrence as if he’s slaughtered his entire bloodline. “Is that all you have to say when your fucking son is facing death?Go fight outside? You have no other goddamn reaction?” He laughs, the sound unhinged. “God, you’re all the same. Every single corner of your fucking empire is rotten to the core.”