Page 213 of Beautiful Venom
So I had to talk to Kane.
I had to hear him say it was all a lie.
But it wasn’t. A lie, I mean.
It was far from a lie and the closest thing to the truth that I’ve been searching for all these months.
The truth he clearly knew I was hunting for and still, he chose to toy with me.
Make me his entertainment.
Everything he said and did, from that first time in the arena to last night, was to keep me under control so I didn’t harm his friend.
To see how far I’d go before he crushes me.
A fresh wave of tears blurs my vision.
And it’s not only because I feel victimized or used. It’s deep rage.
The need to hurt him as much as he’s hurt me.
I want to punch his face and call him names. I want him to feel a sliver of the pain that’s ripping me open from the inside.
But I’d have to give up my sister’s safety if I were ever to consider seeing him again.
The sister he plotted to kill.
Kane and Jude.
They were the ones with the black rings my sister talked about in her journal.
The men who stalked her and made her life hell until she ended up in a coma.
I need to buy a gun. If I see them again, I’m shooting them between the eyes.
My dark thoughts disperse when the car comes to a halt in front of an old-looking house at the end of an empty suburban street.
The white fence is dirty and could use repainting, and the grass is tall and unkempt, as if no one has been at this place for months.
The partition between me and the driver lowers in a hush of mechanical movement before her voice echoes in the air. “We’re here, miss.”
I hear the click on the door unlocking and stare at the house, then the well-groomed driver, who I assume is also security detail, because I spotted her gun earlier. “Is my sister here?”
“Yes.” She looks at me through the rearview mirror. “The key is in the armrest.”
I open the compartment by my side and, sure enough, there’s a key branded #121.
My clammy fingers wrap around the cool metal and I exit the car.
As soon as I do, it drives away.
My heart is in my throat as I walk to the scratched-up white door.
The key doesn’t go in on the first try because of my sweaty hand.
On the second try, the door creaks open and I catch a glimpse of a baseball bat, then hear a furious battle cry.
My hand freezes on the knob.
