Page 7 of Sweet Venom

“Stop,” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from Dave’s shattered face. It’s unrecognizable—blood, saliva, and snot distorting his features.

“Stop?” the stranger repeats in a low growl that crawls across my skin. His voice is so deep and startling, it makes me flinch.

He speaks like it’s a chore to utter words. As if I’m wasting his time.

“Yeah…you’ll kill him.”

“Why would you care?”

I stare up at him.

Big mistake.

I’ve done everything in my might to avoid eye contact since that usually helps me go unnoticed, but here I am.

Looking at the most soulless eyes I’ve ever seen.

They’re dark brown or black—I’m not sure which—but they’re so utterly lifeless, I feel as if I’m in the presence of death.

But death has never scared me. If anything, the thought of it has comforted me. Whenever I’m kicked or thrown around and so damn tired, I think of death and how it’ll free me from all of this.

This stranger, however, is a gruesome version of death, a dark, ruthless entity who I’m sure would snap my and Dave’s necks without any form of remorse.

And it’ll definitely not be the peaceful type of death I’ve always envisioned in my darkest hours.

It’ll be merciless and bloody.

Staring at his face is akin to looking into a deep lake. Pretty from far away but frightening up close.

He’s the kind of beautiful that feels like a trap—razor-sharp, calculated, and entirely lethal. His features are carvedwith cruel precision, from the defined cheekbones that cast harsh shadows under the dim light, to the precise cut of his jaw, as if sculpted from ice and tempered by fire.

His straight nose adds an aristocratic edge that speaks of lineage and old money, but there’s nothing refined about the way he looks at me.

Almost as if…Idisgusthim.

“Answer me,” he repeats when I say nothing. “Why would you care?”

“Why would I care if you kill someone?”

“Yes.” He speaks the lone word with a gruff tone, as if he didn’t want to say anything and was forced to.

“Maybe because that’s wrong?”

“Wrong,” he repeats with an edge.

His dark hair is styled back, slick and perfect, and my gaze is drawn to a few rebellious strands that have slipped free, curling over the thick line of his forehead. They don’t soften him. If anything, they make him look more untamed, like a beast barely contained beneath a shell of restraint.

It’s like I’m in the presence of a brewing storm or a pending disaster. My body is tight due to the awareness that he could erupt or blow up in my face at any second.

Like Mama.

“So, you know what’s fucking wrong?” His lips press into a firm line, betraying no emotion, but his nostrils flare just enough to suggest irritation—almost as if my mere existence offends him.

“What?”

He says nothing, just continues to stare at me.

No.Glare.