Page 158 of Craving Venom
Do I regret what I did?
Not for a fucking second.
If she thought that line was going to dig guilt out of me, if she believed for even one heartbeat I’d regret laying my hands on her, or putting out a display of people who disrespected her, or putting my mouth between her thighs and making her come while fear burned behind her ribs—
She’s delusional.
She’s only angry because I went through with the exhibition. That’s what this is about. That’s why she tried to cut me deep with that little line about my mother.
I didn’t want to traumatize her with that arrangement. I didn’t do it for fun, or to leave her shaking at the sight of it. I did it because she needed to understand that I don’t bluff.
I wasn’t planning on keeping the eyes.
That part wasn’t intentional.
But after the Shadow Room—after that night—after I tasted her, broke her open and watched her tremble beneath me, I couldn’t sleep knowing there were people walking around with the audacity to look at her like she was less.
Those eyes didn’t deserve to keep seeing.
So I took them. One by one.
I didn’t even have time to get rid of them. They were sitting in that box for weeks, tucked away under my bed, waiting for a proper disposal plan I never gave myself time to make.
The sound of the canvas hitting the floor snaps through the cell and I turn to see it lying face-down with a bent corner and a crooked frame, as if it had tried to crawl away from me.
I crouch and curl my fingers under the edge, lifting the canvas upright. The pressure in my chest eases the moment it’s straight again. I dip two fingers into the mess of red and black on the tray beside it and start smearing, letting the color bleed across the surface. The slick slide of paint under my fingertips grounds me better than any sedative ever could.
I work in harsh strokes as the shape of a mouth begins to form, followed by the curve of a jaw and eyes that refuse to blink.
The knock interrupts me mid-stroke, as if whoever’s on the other side thinks they’ve earned the right to break my focus. I look up to see a guard stepping inside before I can tell her not to. She’s wearing too much lip gloss and has too few braincells. Fuck, what was her name? Riley? Bianca? Maybe Madison. Doesn’t matter.
Her eyes sweep over my bare chest, paint-smeared hands, and the mess of rage and control wound tight beneath my skin. Then she bites her bottom lip, making it painfully obvious.
“Didn’t know you painted,” she purrs.
I ignore her and let my fingers get back to work, dipping into more red, dragging streaks across the canvas as lines cut through the white. She steps closer, but I don’t stop.
“I could model for you,” she offers, sliding her hands down her hips. “Out of uniform, if you want the full view.”
I drag black through the red, twisting the color into a shape that reminds me of her spine when I had her bent over the bed with her mouth stuffed full of her own moans.
The real her.
Not this girl playing dress-up in a predator’s cage.
She moves closer, within reach now, as if she’s waiting for me to grab her waist and press her into the nearest wall.
“Not interested,” I mutter as I paint a split down the middle of Faith’s neck.
“You’re kidding,” she scoffs. “Everyone else would kill to—”
I finally snap my head up, shutting her up. She falters as I wipe the paint from my fingers with a rag and toss it onto the table.
“Leave.”
She steps back, faking an unbothered scoff as though she wasn’t two seconds away from dropping to her knees.
I lower my eyes, satisfied for now, and shove the tray aside. Mark had been whining for days about restarting the sessions. I didn’t care, but the kid had a mouth on him, and that alone was enough to earn a second look. I push open my cell door and head down the corridor.
