Page 31 of Beautiful Venom
One of the men surrounding us speaks, his scratchy voice filling the space. “Now, pass her to the others so they can come in her mouth.”
My skin prickles and my eyes widen.
I’ve been so focused on Kane’s miniature movements, I somehow blacked out the other Members surrounding us.
My gaze searches his, but only for a second. A foolish one.
Because the truth hits me like a knife to the ribs. Kane isn’t on my side.
No one in this room is.
Will I be able to lower myself that far? Even if it’s for Violet, I don’t think I can do it.
Kane doesn’t react to the man’s words. Instead, he reaches into his cloak and produces a silver mask—similar to the guards’ ones—and straps it around my face.
He grabs my hand and pulls me up to a standing position so that I’m facing him. His chest grazes mine for a brief second, hot and hard, like a wall.
“Not interested,” he says in his usual emotionless tone, but I think I detect tension beneath it.
“Then use her mouth in front of us,” another one of the cloaked men around us says in a mischievous tone.
Is that…Preston?
“Still not interested. She fails to turn me on.”
Ouch.
His words pierce me like a dagger. That’s definitely not what a girl likes to hear after she’s been practically used by a man.
But at least I don’t have to go through any more humiliating acts.
“You sure about that?” someone else asks in a feminine voice.
“Yes. If you want to see my dick, just say it.” Kane sounds bored, as if he can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.
When no one else protests, he produces a necklace from his cloak—the same talon necklace I saw the girl wearing.
My face squashes against his muscular chest as he fastens it around my neck. As the chain clicks in place, he whispers in my ear so only I can hear him, “You really should’ve run away while you had the chance. Welcome to hell, Dahlia.”
8
DAHLIA
After what I went through, I should’ve buried my face under the covers and hid there the rest of the night.
And I tried that.
Thankfully, when I got back at one in the morning, Megan wasn’t home yet. It’s not unusual for her to spend the night with her friends or just stay out partying.
I had a shower in which I scrubbed my skin until it turned red, then slipped under the duvet on my stomach because my ass burns with every move. Whenever I close my eyes, images of my parents’ accident and the rough, merciless sex invade my head.
Shame and disgust prickle my skin with renewed intensity, so I jump back into the shower. Under the scalding hot water, I rub my skin with enough force that new bruises join the existing sex bruises.
How the hell did I come by being used like that? By that demon?
Am I sick?
Part of me wants to hate it to its core, consider it assault even if I agreed to it. That part, probably some form of defense mechanism, whispers that I wasn’t given a choice. That I only did it because I couldn’t say no.
