Page 80 of Craving Venom
That gets my attention.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes where I can breathe, where I can think, where I can figure out what the fuck to do next.
I hate myself for even considering it. But I force my legs to work, pushing myself up off the floor. My throat burns from where his fingers dug into it, but I stay standing.
“Turn around,” he says softly, “and face the window.”
Window?
I didn’t even know there was a window in here. But when I finally turn, I see it. A floor-to-ceiling pane of glass lined with a black film. I must’ve missed, either from the panic or the shadows swallowing this room whole. It stretches taller than I could reach, wider than a hospital bed.
The lights overhead flicker again, our silhouettes dance across the glass. His image overlaps mine, consuming it in pieces.
“Good girl,” he purrs, taking a lazy step toward me. His eyes drift down my body making my skin crawl.
“Now,” he says softly, “take your dress off.”
“No.” My voice is sharp, steady. “You’re not going to touch me.”
“If you don’t, I’ll forget about being nice, and rip that pretty little dress right off you. And when I’m done? You’ll be walking out of here naked.”
Fuck you, I want to say. But the words die in my throat when he closes the distance and slides his hand around from behind, slipping his fingers into the dip between my breasts.
“Okay!” I choke out, my hands flying up in surrender. “I’ll—I’m taking it off.”
He steps back, and I curse myself as I reach for the hem of my dress. I drag the fabric up, over my head, forcing my face to stay blank as I let it drop to the floor.
I’m cursing myself a second time when I remember, I’m not wearing any underwear.
Zane takes his time looking at me. It’s not justlooking—it’sowning, like he’s already decided I belong to him. His eyes linger on the curve of my waist, the swell of my chest, the bare stretch of my thighs. I feel like I’m being dissected.
I can’t stand it.
My arms move on their own, instinctively wrapping around my chest, trying to shield myself from his eyes. But before I can fully close myself off, his hand shoots out, brushing my arms away.
“Don’t.” His fingers trail along the line of my shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”
I bite down on the panic. “You must be blind,” I spit, glaring at the floor because I can’t look at him. “Or just that fucking desperate.”
His fingers find my waist, tracing gentle lines up my ribs, across my stomach, like he’s handling something fragile.
“And just like that,” he whispers, “I want to gouge their fucking eyes out. Line them up in a perfect circle. Make sure every last one is staring straight at you. So they never forget the goddess they once dared to insult.”
I don’t know what the fuck I expected him to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.
For a second—just one stupid, reckless second—I dare to look at him.
And the way he’s looking at me?
No one’s ever looked at me like that.
There’s no mockery in his expression, no cruelty, just this dark, intense hunger that makes my stomach twist.
It’s wrong.
He’s wrong.
