Page 87 of Sweet Venom

I shift, wincing as a fresh wave of pain flares up in my head. The movement must catch his attention, because he turns the page with deliberate slowness before finally looking at me.

I don’t know why, but my blood freezes.

There’s no warmth in his expression. No concern. Just mild curiosity, as if I’m a puzzle piece he’s studying, deciding where I fit.

My gaze flicks to the book in his hands.

The Antichristby Friedrich Nietzsche.

My pulse jumps.

Is he reading Nietzsche in a hospital room?

Something about that feels so deeply wrong, but before I can process the thought, a polite but entirely insincere smile tilts his lips.

“Ah. You’re finally awake.”

The stranger sounds as elegant and put together as he looks. Where Jude speaks in deep, rough words, this man speaks in a deep, commanding tone.

“Do I…know you?” I say in a hoarse voice.

“No, but I know you.” He pauses, running his gaze overme. “My name is Julian Callahan, but I wouldn’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Violet.”

I swallow. “Are you related to Jude?”

“I’m his older brother. Older half-brother, to be precise. Same father, different mothers. Mine wasn’t the one you watched die.” He flips the page even though he’s not reading the book.

He’s just…looking at me. No—staring. With no change in inflection or expression, even as he stabbed me with those words.

He seems mildly interested in watching me bleed, but apparently, not for too long, because he speaks again. “Aren’t you going to ask why someone as poor as yourself is in a private suite in the hospital?”

“Why…?” I jerk up, ignoring the pain that throbs in my skull as memories pierce through me. “Mario! How is Mario? He was run over and bleeding?—”

“Not important.”

“What?”

“A foot soldier is not important.”

Rage flares up inside me until I see red. This is what’s always happened whenever anyone has threatened Dahlia, and apparently, I feel the same type of anger toward Mario.

Staring into Julian’s dead eyes, I say in a clear voice, “I will not listen to whatever you have to say until you tell me what happened to Mario.”

“You believe you have negotiating power?”

“Yes. You obviously want something, or you wouldn’t have made the time in what I’m sure is a busy schedule to have a word with me.”

He raises a brow, turns a page, then pauses. “He was badly hurt. The surgery was a success, but he hasn’t woken up yet, and he possibly never will.”

My eyes well up and I sink my nails into my thighs through the sheet.

It’s because of me.

Mario was hurt and is facing death because of me.

Why did he have to protect me?

Would he still be okay if I hadn’t been born like Mama often said? Because she’s right, I seem to only bring misfortune to those around me.