Page 81 of Craving Venom
But that look makes me forget how scared I am. Makes me forget how much I fucking hate him.
And that’s what scares me the most.
His eyes drop, zeroing in on my lips, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s going to kiss me. The thought makes bile rise in my throat. But then, just as suddenly, he lets go and steps back.
Without a word, he turns around and strolls over to the armchair in the middle of the room. The sudden space between us gives me room to think.
I turn around and dart my gaze around the room, scanning for something. A weapon, an opening, a way out. My eyes land on the knife on the floor. My fingers itch for it, but if I bend down now, he’ll know. He’ll see right through me.
My thoughts scatter when he heads in my direction, holding a wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, like this is some fucked-up date and we’re about to toast to… what? My humiliation? My destruction?
He walks toward me, like he’s not holding me hostage.
I could use that bottle. Smash it against his head. Drive a shard of glass into his eye. Blind him, at least for a few seconds, enough time to run.
He stops a few feet away, watching me.
“I got you some wine.”
I force my face to relax, keeping my expression neutral. If he suspects I’m plotting something, this chance will be gone.
So I play along.
I let my voice slip into something softer. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
Zane chuckles. “Do I need to?”
The arrogance in his tone makes my skin crawl. But I smile anyway. Just a small one. Just enough to make him believe I’m breaking.
He uncorks the bottle, tilting it over the glass.
“I like drinking straight from the bottle,” I say, reaching out before he can pour.
His hand stills.
His eyes flick up to mine, trying to read me. I keep my expression smooth, my lips curling just slightly, like I’m inviting him into my head instead of blocking him out.
For a second, he hesitates.
Then he smirks.
“Be my guest,” he says, handing me the bottle.
My fingers brush the glass, but before I can close them around the neck of the bottle, he pulls it away like he never intended to give it to me in the first place.
I don’t react.
Not on the surface.
Zane watches me for a beat longer than necessary, then he moves, sliding his hand behind my nape. His fingers thread into my hair. I don’t move away. That would be stupid.
His thumb grazes the sensitive skin at the base of my skull, sending a shiver down my spine. I hate that he feels it. Then the bottle is at my lips. He tilts the glass just enough for the liquid to skim the edge.
I don’t open my mouth.
What if it’s poisoned?
It’s not impossible. It’s not even unlikely. It would be a simple thing for him, a few drops of something tasteless swirling intothe deep red liquid. Maybe he doesn’t even need poison. Maybe the wine itself is the trap, so I keep my lips pressed together.
