Page 8 of Sweet Venom

There’s a danger in his stillness, a quiet violencesimmering beneath the surface. His gaze is dark, unreadable, but it sinks into my skin, a slow, deliberate scrape that peels back layers that I want to remain hidden.

The stranger isn’t just looking—he’s dissecting, calculating, as if deciding whether I’m worth his attention or if he should simply erase me from the world.

I can’t look away, even when every instinct screams at me to run.

And for a moment, he seems familiar. Like a face I’ve previously encountered.

Impossible.

There’s no way I wouldn’t remember someone as striking as he is if I’d met him before.

“If I let him go, will you take his place and be my punching bag?” he asks out of the blue, his eyes tapering to an uncomfortable calm.

“No…of course not.”

He throws Dave aside and he falls against the wall, then stands and stumbles out of the alleyway, muttering something about how the stranger will pay for this.

I can’t focus on him, though, because the stranger is now stepping into my space. His broad frame blocks my vision until he’s all I can see or pay attention to.

The scent of something masculine and heady floods my senses as he towers over me, trapping me in his disturbing presence.

I have to crane my head to look up at him, once again making the eye contact I should avoid at all costs.

“Too late. I already let him go.” He takes a step forward, and I instinctively step back, my beat-up sneakers scraping against the concrete.

“I didn’t agree to that.” I discreetly reach into my backpocket. If I can call 911, if they could hear what’s happening, maybe they’ll send help?—

A large hand latches onto my wrist, pulls my arm, then twists. My stomach coils at the view of the bloodstains at the palm of his glove

“What do you think you’re doing, hmm?” The rumble of his voice seeps into my skin.

I try to pull my hand, but he tightens his grip. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm enough to suggest that he’d make it painful if I struggle any further.

Someone like him who seems to escalate frequently in a short period of time is unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous, and in order to survive, I can’t risk provoking him.

So I remain still. “Please let me go.”

He shakes his head once, tsking as he pushes into me. “Don’t beg yet. We’ll get there…eventually.”

My back hits the wall and I jump, my fingers clammy, my teeth grinding together with the force of the fear that slithers down my spine.

I’ve been cornered twice tonight, but what Dave did feels like child’s play compared to this mountain of muscles and rage.

Because I can feel the anger in his touch and the way he looks at me—like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode.

I’m caught right in the eye of a turbulent storm.

“Now.” He tilts his head to the side. “Shouldn’t you thank me?”

“Thank you?”

“Yes.”

“For…stalking me?”

“For saving your life.” I hear a tinge of annoyance, and that shimmering anger grows in intensity, spillinginto his words.

I swallow and the gulp that gets caught in my throat can be heard in the oppressive silence. “I didn’t ask you to.”