Page 31 of Venom (St. Sebastian’s at Cravenmoor Academy #1)

Venetia

I want this. Fuck, I want this more than anything, but not now. Not when I’m injured and vulnerable.

I tear my mouth from his, my hands planting flat on his chest. Pain lances through my ribs, a sharp, ugly reminder of why I don’t want this yet.

“No,” I gasp, the word a ragged tear in the silence.

“Not like this. I’m bruised and broken, and you’ve just finished patching me up.

It’s not a meeting of equals. It’s a surrender.

It’s me, the wounded animal, accepting the care of my keeper.

And I am nobody’s pet. When we finally fuck, Viper, it will be because two monsters decided to collide.

Not because one of them is licking the other’s wounds. ”

He grasps my hands still on his chest and nods. “I get it.”

That’s all he says before he kisses my forehead and steps back, dropping my hands. He turns his back on me and walks over to the shower, turning it on before he strips off and walks back to me. He takes my hand and helps me rise, leading me to the bathroom.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re taking that better than I expected.”

“What did you expect? Me to be furious and call you names, making you feel guilty and emotionally blackmailing you into fucking me?”

Well, yeah . I remain quiet.

He closes his eyes briefly and pulls me closer, cupping my face as he opens his eyes and stares down at me. “Is that what he did?”

“He, who?” I mutter.

“Don’t be obtuse, wildcat,” he whispers, ducking his head so that he is even closer to me. “I will find him, I will annihilate him.”

“If my dad can’t find him, you won’t be able to.”

“Watch me. Daddy will find him.”

Those words light a fire in my core that is hard to extinguish.

But I have to. If I give in now and fuck him, I’ll be relying on him to take the lead while I nurse my bruised ribs and shoulder.

Fuck that. Fuck that to hell and back. His words and actions are a brand, searing into me and rewriting everything I was clinging to.

I want him to take care of me. I need him.

For once, I want someone else to deal with all the crap this world has to offer.

I let him lead me into the steam-filled bathroom.

The water is warm this time, unlike the icy punishment from before.

He helps me step under the spray, his hands steady on my arms, careful of my bruised shoulder.

I stand there, letting the heat soothe my aching muscles, and watch as he picks up the soap.

He lathers his hands, and his touch when it comes is impossibly gentle.

He washes me with a slow, careful reverence that is more disarming than any of his threats.

His fingers skim over my ribs, avoiding the worst of the bruising, his touch a silent apology and a promise.

His body is a masterpiece of hard muscle and dark ink, slick with water in the dim light.

The power he’s holding in check washes off him, a controlled inferno that makes the air thick.

I should feel weak, exposed. Instead, I feel seen .

This is more dangerous than his anger. This is a weapon that bypasses all my defences.

He turns me around, his hands sliding down my back, washing away the sweat and the fear of the night. His lips brush the nape of my neck, a ghost of a touch as he washes my hair.

A shiver racks my body. I brace my hands against the cool, tiled wall. This is a seduction of the soul, a methodical dismantling of every wall I have ever built. The violence, I understand. The anger I can meet with mine. This tender reverence is a language I don’t speak, and it terrifies me.

“Stop,” I whisper.

“Stop what?” he murmurs against my skin as the water rinses out my hair. “Taking care of you?”

“You’re confusing me.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said to him, and the admission feels like a betrayal of my strength.

He turns me around slowly, his gaze holding mine. The steam swirls around us, a thick fog that makes this small space feel like the only place in the world. “Good,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp. “Maybe you need to be confused. Maybe you need to stop thinking and just feel.”

His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek with an aching gentleness.

It’s too much. The fight in the tower, the fear, the adrenaline, and now this quiet, devastating care.

My defences crumble. A single, hot tear escapes, mixing with the water on my face.

Before I can stop it, a sob rips from my chest, a raw, ugly sound of a pain I’ve held inside for years. I hate it. I hate him for seeing it.

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me, holding me together as I finally fall apart. His hand cradles the back of my head, his hard body a solid, unyielding anchor in the storm. For the first time I can remember, I feel safe.

It is the most terrifying feeling of all.

The sobs wrack my body, ugly and violent, a storm I can’t control breaking free from a cage I’ve kept locked for years.

I hate this weakness. I hate him for seeing it, for causing it, for holding me through it like I’m some fucking fragile doll that’s been dropped.

His hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back.

This is his real power. Not the violence.

This. The ability to unmake me with a kindness I don’t know how to fight.

When the last tremor finally subsides, I shove myself away from him, wiping my face with the back of my hand like a furious child. The shame is a hot flush on my skin, more scalding than the shower spray. “Don’t,” I bite out, my voice raw. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something in their depths that isn’t pity. It’s understanding. Which is somehow worse. “I wasn’t going to,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble.

He turns off the water, and the sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the drip of the shower head.

He wraps a huge, fluffy towel around me, his movements sure and steady, and lifts me out as if I weigh nothing.

He deposits me on the soft bathmat and wraps another towel around his hips before turning back to me.

He doesn’t speak, just dries my hair with a gentleness that makes my throat tight all over again.

I snatch the towel from him. “I can do it myself.”

A slow smile, that familiar, infuriating half-smirk, touches his lips. “I know, but you don’t have to. That’s the difference.”

A knock on the door breaks through the confusion.

I watch him walk out of the bathroom to answer it, leaving me alone with the ghost of my tears and the terrifying realisation that he just saw the real me. He didn’t run. He stayed.