Page 27 of Craving Venom

One afternoon, we’re sitting on a bench in the yard. Terry’s leaning back with his arms stretched over the backrest, while I’m flipping a playing card between my fingers.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “what landed you in here?”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, you don’t already know? Thought you were my biggest fan.”

“I know the headlines,” he says. “But I want to hear it from you. Do you regret it?”

“Regret’s for people who don’t finish what they start.”

“You remind me of a blade. You’re sharp as hell. But a blade that isn’t tempered? It shatters the first time it hits something harder than itself. That’s what I see in you. You’ve got the edge, but you don’t know how to wield it yet. Strength isn’t just about cutting through thefight, it’s about lasting through it. Sharpen yourself, kid. Learn where to strike, and when to wait. Or someone in here is going to shatter you before you even see it coming.”

“Fuck, you’re a sight.”

My fist tightens in her hair, forcing her head back until I know the strain reaches her neck. Her lips part with a sharp intake of breath, spit dripping freely from the corners of her mouth and streaking down her chest. I glance at her, trying to remember her name. Tasha? Tara? Something with a T. It doesn’t matter. The sight of it pooling between her tits makes my cock twitch.

I drag my thumb across her cheek, collecting the wetness smeared there before shoving it between her lips. “Open wider, baby. Let me see how far you can go.”

She obeys instantly, dropping her jaw to let my thumb slide deeper. I chuckle as I press down hard enough to make her gag.

Her throat tightens, and her hands scramble at my thighs as if she thinks that’ll make me ease up. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes me grip her hair even harder, forcing her head back further until she has no choice but to stay completely still.

“You know,” I murmur as I tilt her head further, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. “If I just yanked your head to the right, just one good tug, there’s a bone in here that could snap.” I trail my fingers lightly over the column of her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse against my skin. “You’d lose control of half your body. Maybe forever.”

Her breath hitches, and I can feel the tension coil in her as she tries to shift, to pull away even the slightest bit. That tiny movement makes my grin widen.

“Ah, ah,” I warn, yanking her hair so hard she gasps. “Don’t fucking move.”

Her eyes go wide and glassy with panic as she freezes in place. The fear is almost palpable, and I soak it in, letting it wash over me like a goddamn drug.

“Bet you thought you could play the slut for me, get on your knees, and I’d be nice. But I’m not nice, sweetheart. I don’t give a fuck about your limits or what you think you can handle.”

Her tears finally spill over, tracking down her flushed cheeks, and I wipe one away with my thumb before shoving it between her lips.

Women are harder to break. It’s a truth I’ve learned countless times, watching them endure far more than anyone gives them credit for. Their strength isn’t just in their bodies, though that, too, is underestimated. It’s in their minds, in the way they can dig deep and hold onto something unyielding even when the world around them is tearing at the seams. They’ll take pain, humiliation, and pressure in ways that make men crumble. Men break because they’re too proud, too quick to snap when something threatens their ego. Women? They bend, they adapt, and they survive.

It’s never their bodies that betray them first. No, it’s their heads. That’s where the cracks start. Push them far enough, and they’ll beg, but even then, it’s calculated. Most people don’t realize that. The begging, the tears, they’re a defense mechanism, a way to diffuse the power dynamic long enough to figure out their next move.

I can’t help but admire that about them. There’s a beauty in their resistance, the quiet strength they bury beneath their softness. It’s deceptive, almost cruel in the way it lures you into underestimating them. And when you think you’ve won, think you’ve broken them—they’ll look at you with those eyes, and you’ll realize you were never in control at all.

I let my grip on her hair loosen slightly, dragging my gaze over her as she struggles to hold herself together. The fear in her eyes is real, but the desperation? It reeks of weakness. Not the kind that hides strength, but the kind that’s empty, rehearsed. And that’s what I can’t stand. Not her fear. Not her submission. Just the lie of it.

Her breath starts to even out, the exaggerated gasps start fading as she adjusts herself. When she finally settles, I chuckle. “Good girl.”

The words feel heavy on my tongue, foreign in a way that doesn’t belong to her.

I glance down at her face again, and it begins to blur. Her features seem to fade, like they’re being smudged out of existence. Her cheeks, her lips, her eyes, it all starts to swirl together, dissolving into nothing but ash and shadows.

I blink, but it doesn’t stop. My pulse quickens, a faint unease creeping up my spine as I stare at the blank, featureless mask where her face should be.

“What the fuck...”

The room feels too quiet now and I clench my jaw, forcing myself to focus. This isn’t real. It’s just my head fucking with me. It’s nothing.

“Get out,” I snap.

She flinches, but she doesn’t move.

“Are you deaf?” I bark. “I said, get the fuck out.”

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