Page 43 of Craving Venom
“You’ve got dark eyes. Sharp little mouth, too. Like you bite when you don’t get your way.”
She snorts. “You’re so full of shit.”
And then she laughs.
And fuck.
It’s not fair.
The sound is sharp, unfiltered, real. Like a knife sliding between ribs before you even feel the pain. It slams into my skull, freezes my thoughts, and fuck me, it makes my cock twitch in my jumpsuit.
“What do you really want, sweetheart?”
“I could lie and say this is purely for entertainment, but that’d be an insult to both of us. I want something from you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
“I want to study you.”
“Study me? What, you got a lab coat on the other end of the line? Are you taking notes? Maybe designing a clipboard?”
She doesn’t react to the dig.
“I get it,” I drawl mockingly. “You’re one of those overeducated little shits who spent too much time with your nose in psychology books. Let me guess, you think you’re brilliant. Think you can crack me open like a science experiment and scribble down my insides in your notebook?”
“I think you’re scared.”
The words hit like a fist straight to the sternum.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she levels. “You mock everything because it’s easier than facing it. Easier than admitting you’re terrified to let anyone see past all that bullshit you wear like armor.”
I scoff, but there’s something tight in my chest, something I don’t like. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do,” she counters. “You act as if you don’t care about anything, like nothing fucking touches you. But that’s not real, is it? It’s a performance. A well-practiced, overused, boring little performance.”
My jaw clenches. “Watch it, sweetheart.”
“Or what?” she presses. “You’ll threaten me? Scare me away? Please.” She laughs. “If you wanted me gone, you wouldn’t have called me.”
I wet my lips. “You’ve got a real reckless mouth, you know that?”
“Yeah?” She exhales. “And you’ve got a real fragile ego.”
I roll my neck, my free hand drumming against the table. “And why the fuck should I let you?”
“Because you’re curious too.”
“Curious about what, exactly?”
“About the world beyond those prison walls. About the possibility of connecting with someone, even in the most unlikely of places.”
“And why would I be curious about those things?”
“Because you’re a man who’s built walls so high, he imprisoned himself long before he ended up in that cell.”
Something hot and ugly coils low in my gut.
