Page 173 of Craving Venom
I drop his hand, grab the crumpled wrappers and half-empty bottle of antiseptic, and turn back toward the drawer.
“You’re welcome.”
I shove the supplies into the drawer, wrappers crinkling under my fists. The antiseptic bottle tips sideways and rolls, but I don’t bother fixing it.
“Why are you even in here?” I ask, keeping my back to him.
“I came here to watch you.”
A small laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Watch me? What are you, my stalker now?”
“Baby,” he says, “I’m your predator.”
The lightness snaps clean in half.
I don’t look at him. I keep my head down, shove the drawer closed with a loud bang, and straighten up, but the second I turn, I collide straight into him.
“Jesus—”
His hand catches my elbow. I look up, ready to fire something off.
“Dance with me,” he demands.
My thighs shift where they’re pressed together as my knees start to go weak beneath me, turning slightly to jelly.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t get to dance at my prom.”
I remember reading about it. He was convicted on his birthday, the same day his school had prom. There was a whole line of girls outside the courtroom crying for the judge to let him attend “just one dance.” Girls clutching his picture like he wassome tragic prince instead of a teenage killer. The thought made me want to gag.
I want to spit in his face and tell him to get the fuck out. I want to tell him prom’s for people who don’t set fires and kill other people. But he looks vulnerable tonight. And if I’m smart—and I am—I can use that. Maybe I can get him to talk about the part I haven’t found in the files. That his mother wasn’t sweet or generous or any of the bullshit written about her. That she hurt him. That he killed her for a reason.
So I nod once.
He lifts a hand to take mine.
I stop him with a single palm to his chest. “We can’t dance without music.”
I march over to the nightstand, unlock my phone, and tap the recorder app, just in case. If he says anything useful, I’ll have proof. Then I scroll through my playlists. I pick a track with a gritty bass and a low beat. Something that doesn’t lie about what we are.
I toss a glance over my shoulder. “It’s not exactly Ed Sheeran, but it’s what I’ve got.”
I walk back to him with my hips swaying a little too exaggerated. If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it my way. He lifts one hand again, and I let him take mine while his other hand hovers near my waist without making contact.
I roll my eyes. “You’ve had me pinned to a mattress. You can put your hand on my hip.”
He steps in and pulls me closer until our bodies align as if we’ve done this before, in a parallel universe where we’re not playing a dangerous game with trauma and knives.
His fingers tighten at my side. His other hand holds mine just loose enough that I could pull away.
I don’t.
We sway together, not gracefully, not even close, with him too tall and me too tense and the beat so awful it barely counts as music, but somehow we move anyway.
“I feel like I should be in heels,” I grumble. “Or at least a slutty dress.”
“You look beautiful.”
