Page 134 of Craving Venom
It’s coiled loosely around his neck, its body shifting slightly as he moves, its head resting near his collarbone like it’s the most comfortable fucking place in the world.
It looks so comfortable.
Almost as if it’s familiar with Zane.
Then, without warning, he presses the knife to his palm and slices. A sharp gasp catches in my throat as I watch deep red spill from his skin, sliding down his fingers.
I can’t look away.
The first drop falls into the wine glass.
Then another.
Then another.
My throat was dry a second ago.
But now?
Now, my mouth waters.
I hate the way my eyes stay stuck on the blood, the way something in me likes seeing it drip from him, the way my heart pounds harder the moment he pulls the glass away from his hand.
I hate how satisfying it is.
Zane shifts slightly, tilting the glass in his hand. The snake around his neck stirs. and its hood flares.
“What are you—”
Before I can finish, the snake opens its mouth and lifts her head as Zane shifts slightly to angle the glass. Her hood flares. Then, with a grace her fangs lower, and a thin stream of pale venom drips into the glass. It’s almost like Zane knew exactly how to coax it, like this was something they’d done before. I scream, jerking back like it hit me instead.
It didn’t.
It landed right in the blood.
Zane doesn’t flinch at my scream.
He just watches the glass like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Like the swirl of blood and venom is art. His lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile, but it’s close.
I feel stupid.
So fucking stupid.
Minutes ago, I had the audacity to say these snakes weren’t even venomous.
As if Zane Valehart, the man who broke out of prison just to crawl into my bed and haunt me in ways nightmares couldn’t even compete with, would bring something harmless.
“Did you know,” he says calmly, “that most snakes aren’t venomous?”
I blink, still pressed to the headboard, still watching that glass like it might explode. “What?”
“People think venom equals danger. But it’s not true. Most snakes don’t have venom. And the ones that do?” He lifts the glass slightly. “They’re not aggressive. They don’t chase. They don’t kill for sport. They only strike when they’re cornered. When someone bigger decides not to listen.”
By “people” he means me because I told him, I’d walk out of the door if the snakes weren’t venomous.
His fingers brush the snake’s smooth body, stroking it like it’s something holy. “Snakes are not monsters. People just don’t like what they can’t control.”
I stay frozen, silent, but my eyes are locked on him—on them.
