Page 229 of Craving Venom
We just stare at each other.
“Are you… a superhero?”
I don’t answer.
Because if I open my mouth right now, I might growl.
Or laugh.
Or confess to things no child should ever hear.
So I settle for shaking my head.
The boy blinks and parts his lips like he doesn’t understand why a superhero would be silent. Then he lets go of the ball, it rolls away slowly, thudding against the far wall, and lifts his arm, motioning for me to come down to his level.
I don’t know why I do it.
Maybe it’s the steadiness in his eyes. The complete absence of fear.
Or maybe I just want to see what kind of child walks straight up to me without pissing himself.
I lower myself until we’re eye to eye. And it’s then that he notices the blood.
His small fingers reach for my hand. He frowns when he sees the split across my knuckles. Without a word, he pulls a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket—white with little blue rocket ships on it—and ties it tight around my hand. Not skillfully. Not perfectly. But with intention.
“There,” he says softly. “My mommy says when my daddy gets hurt, it’s because he’s protecting someone. That’s what superheroes do.”
I stare at him, the cloth warm against my skin. It’s the only clean thing left on me, and it doesn’t belong here.
“Were you protecting someone?”
I look at the knot on my hand. I don’t feel the blood anymore. Just heat. A different kind.
I nod once. “I’d like to think that.”
“What’s your name?”
I should lie.
I should say nothing.
But a dark, cracked, rusted piece stirs inside me.
“People like to call me…” I pause, let the mask tip down just enough to see his reflection in the shine. “The Nighthawk.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE BEAUTY
The cursor blinks, judging me. Flash, pause. Flash, pause. The sentence I’ve been rewriting for the last twenty minutes is still shit, and no amount of caffeine or Ctrl+Z is fixing it.
I hate that I feel good. That my body has the nerve to throb like it’s asking for a second round when my brain can’t stop screaming about who I fucked.
A convicted felon.
I slam my laptop shut and shove the project aside. Nothing feels important after what I did last night. I’ve blocked everyone, muted the group chat, and ignored my emails. The world can burn for all I care.
My phone buzzes across the table.
