Page 129 of Beautiful Venom
“Instead of thanking me, learn how to read the room and pick your fucking battles.” His tone is biting, his angry words cutting into me like knives.
I’ve never seen Kane this enraged. Hell, I didn’t think he was capable of this type of rage.
And the part that twists my stomach? It’s the feeling that he’s madforme.
Formysafety.
I swallow. “I…didn’t know.”
“But you must’ve felt it.” He releases a long sigh. “Stay the fuck away from Preston and Jude. You don’t have the slightest clue about what they’re capable of.”
“What about you?” I whisper. “I don’t know what you’re capable of either.”
He strokes my cheek, his voice low and gravelly. “It’s too late to stay away from me. You should’ve taken the chance when I first offered it.”
23
DAHLIA
Ihaven’t gone to Kane’s place for three days.
That doesn’t stop me from visiting his mom. She texted and invited me over for afternoon tea, and I couldn’t say no.
I’ve been let into the extravagant mansion by a member of staff who merely bowed at me and told me to follow him.
My hand tightens around the flowers I bought on my way here.
The Davenport mansion rivals the Armstrongs’ in grandiosity and sheer opulence. They’re both huge, shining, and smell of old money.
They both reek of death as well.
My chest has been tight since the moment I walked in.
The butler’s steps echo on the checkered marble floor, a soft but steady rhythm that cuts through the dooming silence. He moves with precision, his posture straight and his bald scalp catching the dim light as we pass towering walls of dark wood and art whose creatures feel like they’ll pop out and devour me.
The air is heavy, laced with something old that presses against my skin like a warning.
So…this is where Kane grew up.
How could he breathe amid this repressive energy?
My pulse beats in my throat as I study my surroundings, the walls seeming to close in more the farther we walk. Every corner of this mansion feels untouched, frozen in time, like it exists outside of reality.
And yet…
Every inch of it is Kane. The controlled edges, the cold perfection, all laced with something darker beneath the surface.
No wonder he transformed into a fortress with no access. He was born into one.
“Does Kane visit often?” I ask the butler.
He says nothing, just glides ahead with his stiff posture, leading me deeper into the belly of this house, past heavy doors and windows draped in velvet.
Suddenly, he stops and gestures to the glass door framed in dark wood up ahead. Beyond it, I can see the faint outline of the garden.
He slides the door open without a word, and the crisp, sharp scents of earth and water hit me.
The garden is alive in a way the mansion isn’t—soft camellia trees drifting in the breeze, the quiet trickle of a stream somewhere in the distance.
