Page 36 of Sweet Venom

The air is laced with something clean and expensive, a faint trace of musk and cologne clinging to the walls.

The entrance spills into an open floor plan, warm lighting cascading over polished wood floors leading to an off-white staircase that disappears into darkness.

It’s beautiful but odd.

This isn’t the kind of mansion or penthouse I imagined someone like Jude would live in. Two stories, sleek and modern, like something out of a magazine. Muted grays and blacks, soft ambient lighting that doesn’t feel harsh, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a high-end showroom.

And yet…as I glance around, my chest squeezes with unease.

Something feels off.

The house is too sterile and perfect, like no one really lives here.

Like it was put together with intention but has never actually been touched.

My footsteps are too loud as I trail behind Jude, gripping the straps of my backpack tighter. The thick silence presses against my ribs with each breath.

I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but Jude has a way of integrating silence and using it to make me uncomfortable.

It doesn’t help that the house feels wrong. There’s nolingering scent of home-cooked meals or any worn-in furniture. Just…nothing.

We walk toward the living room, and I take it in—a charcoal-colored sofa, a glass coffee table, and a massive flat-screen mounted on the wall.

Everything is pristine, not a pillow out of place, not a single mark on the floor, not a hint of the man who’s taking over my life.

And my sanity.

Jude’s silent, controlled strides are my only tether to reality. He removes his leather jacket and throws it on the chair. His T-shirt stretches across his back, ink curls down his arms, the shadows animating the symbols and designs.

He faces me and I stop dead, swaying in place, then look down. His boots come into view, and I jerk my head up, covering my mouth with my palm.

I certainly don’t want to give the prick a chance to kiss me again.

His lips twitch, just the slightest bit as he flicks a glance to the sofa.

Sit.

No words. Just a single motion.

I hesitate, clutching my backpack tighter, then my shoulders hunch and I sit. On the edge.

Still gripping the straps.

Jude doesn’t join me, just stands in front of me, looking like a wall. He’s already tall when I’m upright, but at the moment, he’s ten times more intimidating.

“Now what?” I ask, remembering to look at him.

He doesn’t reply, just continues to stare at me, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking about.

“You brought me here for a reason, right? If we can reach it soon, that would be great.”

Jude tilts his head to the side. “In a hurry to go back to your unremarkable life?”

“Yes, actually. It might be unremarkable, but it’s mine and I’m happy with it.”

“Happy enough to write about how much you’ve thought about dying every other day?”

My throat dries, the emotions getting clogged in there. “You had no right to read my journal.”