Page 8 of Craving Venom
His face freezes, like I’ve driven a nail straight into his skull. I take a deliberate bite of the toast, chewing slowly, savoring his reaction as much as the food.
“Now, what was her name again?” I pretend to think, even though I don’t give a fuck. “Lila? Yeah, that was it. She was a sweet little thing. Bit too eager, though. Almost like she had something to prove.”
“Shut your mouth,” he growls, stepping closer.
I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t get mad at me, man. I didn’t make her come to me. She came on her own.” I smirk, twisting the knife just a little deeper. “And then again. And again. You get the picture.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He knows. Everyone here does. I’ve got the guards in my pocket, the inmates under my thumb, and the warden? Well, let’s just say she’s not as supreme as she likes to think.
“You should really eat,” he mutters something under his breath before turning away, and the door clanks shut behind him.
I toss the toast back onto the tray and return to the window. The yard is the same as it’s always been. A fight breaks out near the weight racks. Two guys are swinging at each other like their lives depend on it. The crowd forms instantly like a mass of bodies hungry for violence.
Amateurs.
A whistle blows, and the guards rush in, pulling the combatants apart and dragging them off. The crowd dispersesas quickly as it formed, everyone retreating to their corners like nothing happened. Order restored, chaos tucked neatly away.
I tap my fingers against the glass, watching as the yard settles back into its usual rhythm. Out there, they think they’re fighting for survival. In here, survival is knowing when to fight and when to let everyone else do the dirty work.
This place doesn’t bother me. It never has. Power isn’t about where you are; it’s about who you are. And me? I’ve got more power in here than most people do out there.
The sky is clear today, a pale blue stretching endlessly above the razor wire. I could almost call it beautiful, if I cared about that sort of thing. But beauty’s just another lie people tell themselves to make the ugliness bearable.
I lean my forehead against the glass one last time, letting the chill seep into my skin before I head toward the common area, keeping my pacunrushed. There’s no point hurrying. Time bends in here, stretches out until it’s meaningless.
Passing the cells, I keep my head high and let my eyes skim over the inhabitants. Most of them drop their eyes and pretend to be busy, whether it’s cleaning, reading, or simply staring at the walls, but one person doesn’t.
Cell 316.
Poor kid. He’s got that look in his eyes, as if he’s still waiting for someone to tell him this is just a bad dream. He’s trying so damn hard not to look away, holding my gaze like eye contact is his only shot at survival.
I don’t blink. I don’t slow down. My gaze hooks onto his, steady as a fucking metronome. His face tightens for a split second before he finally breaks, turning his head so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap.
The common area’s half full, the usual crowd is spread out across tables, couches, and corners. I grab a random book off theshelf and head for the farthest table. The one no one dares to sit at unless they’ve got a death wish or something to prove.
I drop into the chair, stretching my legs out and flipping the book open. Doesn’t matter what’s inside; I’m not here for the plot. The act of reading’s enough to make people think twice about approaching.
My skin tightens before my mind does. The air’s heavier, and someone’s standing where they shouldn’t be.
Without lifting my head, I snap my eyes up.
The kid.
He freezes mid-motion with one hand reaching for the chair across from me while the other hangs uselessly at his side. His lips part like he’s about to speak, but no sound comes out. The poor bastard looks as though he’s been caught sneaking into the lion’s den with a steak tied around his neck.
I lean back, letting my eyes rake over him. Up close, he looks even younger than I thought—maybe eighteen, nineteen tops. His muscles strain against his prison-issue shirt, but they’re all show. He doesn’t know how to stand, how to move, how to carry himself. All that bulk, and he’s just a scared little boy playing at being a man.
“You lost, kid?”
He swallows hard, the movement of his throat drawing attention as his Adam’s apple shifts with the effort. “I, uh…”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Sit.”
He drops into the chair so fast you’d think his knees gave out.
