Page 233 of Beautiful Venom

No one is here.

In the garden.

Or the house.

I dismissed the entire staff and security team after my mother went on an international trip for the mental health charity she’s now spending most of her time—and money—on.

Dahlia doesn’t know that, though.

She thinks we’re having a family dinner and is probably dolling herself up to look her best.

But I have a surprise in store.

The garden is cloaked in profound silence as I patiently wait.

Snow blankets the ground, the white layers softening the contours of the stone lanterns and bridges, turning the sharp pond edges into gentle mounds.

The bare branches of the cherry trees stretch toward the dusky sky, their bony figures etched against hues of deepening indigo and violet.

Tires scrunch against the gravel in the distance before I hear her soft voice, low, barely audible in the wind as she probably thanks Samuel and interrogates him.

He hates when she interrogates him.

And she seems to enjoy egging him on.

The tires screech again, and Samuel disappears like the rest of the staff.

So it’s only us.

I linger behind a towering black pine, its needles dusted with frost, offering just enough concealment. Each breath is a sharp inhale of icy clarity that fills my lungs, then escapes as a faint cloud.

The crunch of boots on snow reaches me before I make out her silhouette. Dahlia’s wrapped in a beige winter coat and a furry hat covers her head, but her brown locks fall in a bouncy rhythm on either side of her shoulders.

Lanterns flicker to life along the winding path as she walks, their warm glow casting elongated shadows that dance across the snow. She stops by the koi pond that lies still, a thin veil of ice forming at the edges, and waves. “Hi, guys. Sora, did you miss me, you bad boy?”

Dahlia and her freaking recent habit of talking to fish. Mother’s influence—and part of their bonding, apparently, because they’re planning to go koi fish shopping in Asia soon.

The pale light catches in Dahlia’s hair, a fleeting shimmer as she turns her head to take in her surroundings. Her breath forms delicate plumes that linger before fading away.

The subtle rustle of her clothing brushes against the silence. “Kane?”

She gets closer, like a magnet, as if knowing exactly where I am. The cold brings a faint flush to her cheeks, and the scent of jasmine reaches me—a rare warmth amidst the winter chill.

My gaze sharpens, tracking her movement between the slender trunks of bamboo that sway ever so slightly in the evening breeze.

I remain still, the rough bark of the pine pressing against my back, and anticipation coils tight within me.

Controlled tension.

But also lawless.

As she moves closer, the details sharpen—the way her eyelashes catch tiny crystals of snow, the almost imperceptible curve of a smile tugging at her lips.

My little wildflower is humming with excitement for when I’ll ambush her.

Cravingit.

Trembling for it, even.

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