Page 176 of Beautiful Venom
Bury the past.
Forgetthe past.
Crush the past to fucking pieces so she never sees its blood-soaked fragments again.
But right now, something’s off.
The bright white lights flicker as I stride into the work area. The sharp smell of antiseptic and chemicals lingers in the cold, sterile air.
Fluorescent lights buzz faintly above, casting a harsh glow on everything. I’ve often arrived early to pick up Dahlia from here and remained in the shadows for some time, just enjoying the view of seeing her in her element.
She said she only chose to study medicine for her sister, but Dahlia’s a fucking genius at what she does. A hard worker and somewhat of a nerd. She gets excited about the most niche, unknown, and completely unheard-of scientific research and can talk about how important it is for hours.
Right now, however, there’s no trace of her moving around while humming some obscure band’s song.
I’m about to call her for the thousandth time, but my fingers pause on the phone.
Dahlia’s curled in on herself in the corner, small and fragile in contrast to the harsh, large surfaces surrounding her.
Her arms are wrapped tightly around her knees, her face buried, hiding from the world.
A slight tremor runs through her, barely noticeable. It cuts through the stillness of the room, the sound of her shaky breaths louder than the quiet hum of the machines.
Her hair spills forward, a tangled mess hiding her face, but I recognize this state.
It’s how she protects herself when distressed or experiencing a nightmare.
I carefully move toward her, the sharp echo of my footsteps bouncing off the sterile walls.
I hate how the tension in her body tightens at the sound, but she doesn’t look up, as if she’s waiting for the darkness to swallow her whole.
“Dahlia…?”
No response.
I crouch before her and grab her wrist, then slowly release it. She doesn’t resist, as if the fight in her is gone.
My fingers tense when I lift her face.
Her eyes are filled with moisture, and all the mischief is gone. They’re a muted brown, colorless.
No. Lifeless.
Tears streak down her red cheeks, clinging to her chin, then slipping to her jersey beneath the lab coat, wetting the blue to a darker color.
While her tears during sex turn me on, these make me murderous.
I don’t like it when she cries. Mainly because she rarely does.
“What happened?” I stroke her cheek, wiping away the moisture. “Who did this?”
Her lips tremble and fresh tears gush out, soaking my fingers.
I grab her face with both of my hands. “Tell me who the fuck did this so I can end them.”
“Kane…” Her voice is low, weak, barely audible.
This isnotlike her. Who the fuck managed to mess with her?
