Page 69 of The Vipers and Their Vendetta

It takes me ages to shower and dress. I’m still mildly hungover, and all I want is carbs and full-sugar Coke to quell the faint remaining nausea. I must have drunk so much to have a two-day hangover. I leave my room and head out.

As I walk down one of the long corridors, the scent of fresh shaved woodchips tickles my nose. I’m walking past the workshops where students can carry out metalwork and woodwork. Some of the girls work on jewelry designs, and some of the guys work on furniture and tools, and there’s a rumor that there is a secret class on modifying weapons. Who knows?

The woodsy smell is pleasant, but I wonder what kind of geek is in the workrooms on a weekend. Probably a professor. I almost do a double take when I glance in and see Zane.

Fascinated, I stop and watch him. I know he makes furniture, but I’ve never seen him doing so.

Headphones are clamped over his ears so he can’t hear me, and he’s facing partially away from me, so I can only see part ofhis profile. From what I can see, he’s totally engrossed in what he’s doing.

His face is almost a scowl as he focuses on the wood in front of him. It hits me then that this is something he loves. The same way Saint loves his paintings. This is Zane’s thing. I couldn’t think of anything that mattered to him, but his furniture does.

The way he’s zoned out on it shows a man completely in the flow, lost to the rest of the world.

He’s wearing a tight t-shirt, and it wraps lovingly around his biceps. His long, muscular arms, covered in their intricate ink, really are works of art. As for watching his big hands smooth that wood in such a careful, almost loving way…well, it does things to me.

I think I need to go to the doctor for a pill. Something to help with my addiction to these men.

As if he senses me, Zane pauses and turns. He smiles and beckons me over with two curls of his fingers. I hesitate in the doorway and glance at my phone. I have ten minutes until I meet Faith, and I don’t want to be late.

Still, as if drawn by an invisible string, my feet start moving before I’m aware I’ve even made up my mind.

When I near the wood, I can see how smooth the lines of what he’s working on are. I trail my finger over the lovingly curved edges. He signs something, but I don’t understand. He takes his phone out and writes.

The curves of this remind me of you.

I frown a little as he writes again, thinking he’s going to say something crude about my ass.

It’s beautiful—the wayyouare.

Looking at him through my lashes, feeling almost shy, I give him an unsure smile. These guys give me whiplash. This man held a knife to my throat, and now he’s telling me how beautiful I am. I need to remember what he did.

“Did you think I was beautiful when you had a knife to my throat?” I say, my voice bitter.

He shocks me when he smiles, and God, he looks gorgeous. He taps out another message.

Even more so.

Jesus, how am I supposed to take that?

He writes more.That blossom of blood on your throat was gorgeous. Kind of made me wish I had fangs.

I stare at him, as usual, unsure of how to take him.

He shrugs and writes again.Don’t you think that would be intense? Drinking each other’s life force. Your venom filling my veins.

Okaaay, I think I need to get going. Zane is a headfuck even when he’s being poetic.

I turn to leave, but he pulls me into him, my back to his front, and I let out a small squeak of surprise. I twist my head, and he’s towering above me, so he must have stood as soon as I prepared to go.

He shakes his head. Then he speaks. No sound comes out, but he moves his mouth so clearly, I can understand.

“Kiss me,”he mouths.

I shake my head.

He nods.

“No, Zane, I’ve got to go.” I try to move, but his arms are massive, and I can’t break free from him no matter how I try.

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