Page 41 of Sweet Venom

And if it means death to every single fucking person who was in that square, so be it.

So why the fuck…does seeing Violet in this state enrage me?

A lot of things about this fucking girl do—from the very first time she gave me that blue umbrella.

And it’s only gotten worse since.

I despise her naïveté, the way she just lies down and takes everything thrown her way, but most of all, I hate how she smiles even though her life is a mess and her journal is full of suicidal thoughts and a shit ton of trauma and low self-esteem that was caused by her mother.

And I shouldn’t have all these damn thoughts or feelings about someone from that day.

Someone who chose to stand by as that scum took away my mom—and the only light in my life.

And yet…

As Violet shakes uncontrollably and falls to the floor, heaving and wheezing, I throw the knife aside. The clattering of the metal is drowned out by the choked sounds she’s releasing as she bangs on her chest with her fist.

A panic attack, I realize, as I tower over her, looking down at her reddish hair that’s also smudged with blood.

I should let her rot. Or, better yet, just end her miserable life once and for all.

But then again, that’s what she wants, so that’s not going to happen.

I lower myself in front of her. This close, I can see the tiny freckles dusting her nose and upper cheeks like dotted stars on a moonless night. “I thought death didn’t scare you.”

She’s still wheezing, her other hand grasping at the floor for balance.

“Or is that only when your own life is on the line? Do other people’s deaths disturb you?” I reach out my bloodied hand and grab her cheek, lifting her head.

Pools of deep blue are marred with tears as she stares up at me while I smudge her pale cheek with blood. “Or is it because you’re squeamish?”

Her breathing is still sharp, irregular, but she’s no longer banging on her chest. I slide my thumb over her upper lip. It’s slightly bigger than the lower one, giving her a permanent little pout.

And I paint it in blood.

Her mouth. Her skin.

Even her soul should be red.

Her quivering lips part slightly, giving me the tiniest opening I shouldn’t entertain taking, but I do. I slide my middle finger inside, until it’s resting on her hot, wet tongue.

And I thrust it against the surface, going in as far aspossible, until she chokes, her eyes widening, but then I pull back and rub it against her tongue.

She swallows around my finger, her delicate throat working up and down with the motion.

My cock jumps in my jeans, and I suppress a groan, because why the fuck would that be a turn-on?

I don’t even like oral. Or any foreplay.

All the girls I fuck know that I want someone who’s game to being dicked down on the mattress, wall, floor, anywhere where I can fuck the aggression out of my system, and then off they go.

I don’t care for blowjobs. At all.

So why the fuck is Violet’s mouth around my finger making my usually picky cock act up?

Little by little, her breathing slows, her hand sliding from her chest to her lap as she stares up at me.

She looks a mess, blood from my hand on her cheek, her lips, some in her hair, but it’s her eyes that hold me hostage.