Page 184 of Craving Venom
“Fuck this.”
I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor, adding it to the growing pile of discarded dresses. Four down, and not a single one looks right.
Why the fuck do I even care?
It’s a prison visit. I’m not walking into a club. I don’t need to impress anyone.
My fingers grip the next dress, a sleek black thing I barely remember buying, and I drag it over my head. It hugs my curves, stretches tight across my tits, and stops just short of indecent. It’s the best one so far, but it’s not right. I’m not right. I’ve fucking changed.
My reflection stares back at me, hair slightly mussed from all the changing, lips a little too swollen from biting down every time a memory of Zane crashes through me. This prison visit is getting under my skin. It’s not the prison itself, I’ve done the research, I know what to expect. It’s not the guards, or the students, or the professors who’ll be watching.
It’s Zane.
The thought of being that close to him again makes something in my stomach knot.
He told me what would happen the next time he saw me.
My eyes drift to the dresser and land on the unopened box of birth control pills. Why did I get them? I don’t need them since I’ve had an IUD for years, and I’m already covered and protected. But still, I bought them. Something compelled me to. Zane told me to. My fingers brush the edge of the box, but I don’t pick it up because it’s not like he’s going to fuck me in a prison.
Would he?
I don’t know anymore. The rules don’t apply to Zane, and they sure as hell don’t apply when it comes to me. Still, taking the pill feels wrong, an admission I’m not ready to face. I shove the box to the back of the dresser, burying it out of sight.
But the weight in my chest doesn’t lighten.
And no matter how many times I tell myself Zane’s not going to fuck me in that prison, I can’t stop my body from reacting to the possibility.
Because if he tries?
I’m not sure I’ll stop him.
Fuck it.
I pull on the tights, plain black and tight against my legs. I pull a simple camisole over my head and bury myself inside an oversized jacket. My bare feet press against the cold floor as I step back, scanning my reflection. It’s fine. I look fine.
“What the hell happened in here?”
I glance over my shoulder. Tria’s standing in the doorway, taking in the disaster I’ve made of my room.
“What’s with the fashion show? I thought we were going to a prison, not a runway.”
“I couldn’t decide.” I try to play it off, pulling my jacket tighter around me. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Faith.”
My name comes out softer this time.
Shit.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, adding a quick shrug as if that’ll sell it. “Just… tired.”
“Bullshit.”
Of course, she doesn’t buy it.
“You’ve been off since Halloween night,” she presses. “You never told me what happened after—”
