Page 59 of Rawest Venom

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Extraction mission go.

Operation killjoy in effect.

My heart stops beating for a full second before speeding to catch up its rhythm. Operation killjoy, the end of my mission. It’s time to kill Cal, and Dash will be coming for me. It’s been too long for me to check in, so they went ahead with it.

Hurriedly my fingers fly over the buttons and send a response signal, but the message is not deliverable, as expected. They’ll be coming for us, and they know exactly where we are. Either I take Cal out, or they take me out… Perhaps they end both of us.

As I clean up and dry off with an extravagantly soft cotton towel, I think about my strategy. For my entire life, I’ve lived on my own. Of course, I had to rely on my teammates, but that has been a contingent relationship only based on what we could do for each other or the mission. It took hard-fought lessons during my training to realize I was nobody to them. Just a weapon, a means to an end. So much so, I began to believe it about myself.

I don’t remember my childhood before the basement, but I don’t think I want to. All that comes up is a vague feeling of sadness and loss. Cal has given me some of the most genuine happy times in my life, and renewed hope. There’s hope that thingscanandwillget better and that I could be in control of that.

With or without him.

Survival has always been paramount. I’ve always had to fight and claw and scratch and evade, lie, seduce, manipulate. Cheat or steal. Whatever it took, I was going to endure it all.

And with that in mind, I get dressed for our date out in the big city.

“I thought I’d take you to this bakery I enjoy. See if you like it,” Cal says, sliding his phone into his back pocket.

Bounding over to him, I reach up on my tiptoes and place my lips in a smack against his cheek. The skin underneath my affection turns a bit pink. “That sounds lovely.” Threading my small hand in his, I tug him toward the door. “Come on! There’s so much to see!”

Cal waves off his chauffeur as we exit the glass doors of the hotel, saying the weather is too nice to be inside. I think he did it for me, knowing how much I enjoy the outdoors. The streets are clean and busy as we climb the hilly sidewalk to our first destination. Practically skipping in the sparkling sunshine, I never let go of his hand as his long legs walk hurriedly next to me. A few giggles escape my mouth, and when I check out his face, he’s smiling like I haven’t seen before. Light, carefree.

Before I get too far ahead of him, he pulls me back to him and wraps an arm around my waist, so we amble together toward the store on a corner three blocks up.La Petite Pâtisseriestands at the end of a row of quaint buildings, likely erected in the mid-century. The entire side has been plastered in pink, with white and black awnings covering the two stories. Gold letters outline their large, elegant sign scrawled in fancy script.

The smell of fresh bread and sugar hits my nose, making my stomach crunch with hunger. Cal opens the white iron-barred door for me and waves me inside with asmall bow. When I enter, the delicious scents are stronger, but momentarily wash away as I take in the beauty of the interior and the walls of display cases filled with every pastry, cake, cookie, pie, and bread I could ever imagine. Small two-seater tables line any space available, each filled with couples out for a lazy brunch. A winding staircase leads to a second story that overlooks the bakery and opens to a large patio visible from where we approached.

Warm honey meets my ear as Cal bends to say, “Get whatever you like. I’ll wait for you, and if you need to, pick ten things. Fuck! Buy the entire store, just so long asyou choose.” He slips a credit card into my palm from his wallet before sauntering to the vegan section to place his order.

The sheer number of desserts is overwhelming. I consider everything one by one. Children run up to shove me out of the way so they can press their noses into the glass case, and I stoop to join them. Finally, I stop at a plate filled with fancy petit fours. Sometimes Cal would bring in a box from his home, saying his chef made them and he couldn’t eat them all. He’d casually tell me to “dig in.” These little cakes look like those, and IknowI like them.

My eyes burn and swell as I make my pick. It’s another thing I learn about myself: I like petit fours. Before I can revel in that thought, a little boy with dark black curly hair and big brown eyes turns to me and points to the glass with his little finger and asks, “Is this chocolate?”

Swallowing back a lump, I say, “I think so. It lookslike it has white icing on top and this sign says chocolate. D-do you like chocolate?”

His mouth curls into an easy grin. “Yeah, I like it. I don’t like vanilla. My mom always tries to get me to eat blueberry muffins, too, and that’s just not the same as chocolate chips.”

I snort. “No, it’s not.”

“Deshawn, get over here.” The boy’s mother snaps her fingers as she waits in line to pay. He gives me a smirk and runs back to her, tugging on her sleeve and asking for the “little chocolate cakes.”

“Do you want one of these?” A bored-looking teenager points to the wire shelves in front of me.

Standing, I confidently say, “Yep. I want those two.”

After paying with Cal’s card, I carry my bag of treats upstairs to find him leaning back in a white iron chair on the patio. A cool breeze causes a rustle in the lush greenery surrounding the ledge as I slide into the chair opposite him. He’s reading his phone, but his bright green eyes jump up when I sit. Putting his phone away, he gives me a small smile, as if he can’t even help himself around me.

“What did you pick?”

Pulling out my cakes, I show him with a wave of my fingers.

“Ha, like Monet’s. You like hers.” The way his eyes crinkle makes me think he knew that all along.

“Is that why you brought me here?”

One of his shoulders shrugs. “Maybe. I thought you would like it, yes.”

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