Page 48 of Sweet Venom

A couple of days ago, after I gave him his usual drink at HAVEN, I asked how he was, but he just looked at me with that detached expression and ignored me.

And I didn’t push, because, well, I’m pretty sure I caught the glint of a gun beneath his jacket.

Guess he’s not interested in talking to the person he’s pseudo stalking.

Shocker.

The actual stalker, however, was nowhere to be seen, having delegated the entirety of his work to Mario.

There were no notes left in my journal, nor was there a motorcycle in front of HAVEN.

Jude just…disappeared.

Not entirely, since Mario is literally tailing me right now, but Jude’s physically not there.

Which is a relief. Even if it’s only been a week.

Ever since he forced me to watch a cold-blooded murder, splashed me with a stranger’s blood, then promised to fuck me if I didn’t get my shit together, I’m glad I don’t have to look at him.

I mean, yes, I told him to fuck me, but, really, I was just in a post-panic attack adrenaline high and kind of just talked nonsense to escape.

Because he’s right. Jude looks like the type who fucks like he speaks. In angry spurts of violence that I definitely couldn’t handle.

Hell, I think I was in some sort of a daze when he thrust his finger in my mouth and kind of made me suck it.

A bloody finger.

With the blood of a man he just killed.

The fact that I only thought of thatafterI left should be a bright red flag.

Because I don’t find dangerous men attractive. At all.

I’ve met enough of them to know they’re the scum of the earth.

Jude Callahan’s stoic face, rigid personality, and weapon of a body shouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind.

The afternoon air is cool against my skin, the hum of traffic merging with the rhythm of my footsteps against the cracked sidewalk. The streetlights’ shadows cast long figures in the afternoon sun that stretch and curl like grasping hands as I walk past them, my mind focused on what I’m going to cook for dinner.

I have several hours before my shift, so maybe I’ll make Dahlia lasagna. She always says it’s my signature dish and usually finishes a few servings in one night.

I balance the weight of my backpack slung over one shoulder. I have to find fresh meat, even if it’s a small quantity and…

The roar of an engine splits the quiet.

I barely register it when a black van speeds toward the sidewalk.

No—it’s rushing toward me.

It surges forward, tires screeching against the asphalt coming fast. Too fast.

I’m frozen in place, waiting for the death I’ve often spoken to before bed.

In a blur of motion, something lunges toward me—Mario—slamming into my side. Hard.

I hit the ground, out of the van’s path. Hot, burning pain lances through me as my knees scrape against concrete, my breath shattering in my lungs.

And I watch with my mouth agape as Mario spins, reaching for his gun?—