Page 28 of Craving Venom

She hesitates, and I lunge forward, gripping her arm and yanking her upright. She stumbles, and for a moment I think she might go down.

“Go,” I hiss, shoving her toward the door. “Before I change my mind.”

I watch her go. The blank space where her face should be is still burned into my vision. My cock is still hard, but the desire is gone, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that leaves me cold.

I need air.

I stalk through the halls, ignoring the stares of the other inmates. They part for me like the Red Sea. Smart choice. The heat rolling off me is a warning no one here is stupid enough to ignore.

I make my way to the far corner, where the guards can’t see much and no one bothers to pretend they’re not breaking rules.

Getting weed in here isn’t hard. Nothing is, really, if you know how to work the system. A cigarette here, a favor there, it’s all transactional. I don’t even have to ask; one of the guys nods when he sees me coming, already pulling a tightly rolled joint from his pocket.

I toss him a look that says “don’t fucking talk to me” as I take it, slipping it between my lips and lighting it up with the cheap-ass prison-issued lighter. The first inhale burns but I welcome it.

Years in this place, and this is the first time I’ve turned to a substance to calm myself. I lean against the fence, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that drifts up into the sky, carrying pieces of my frustration with it. My body relaxes almost instantly.

But my mind? My mind doesn’t get the fucking memo.

Faith Collins.

It irritates the fuck out of me, the way she gets under my skin, crawling into the parts of me I’ve spent years locking down. She doesn’t know when to stop, doesn’t know when to walk away. She keeps pushing, testing, daring me to break her.

And the worst part? She doesn’t even fucking realize it.

I bring the joint back to my lips, taking a longer drag this time, the smoke searing away the edge of my frustration but doing nothing for the core of it.

I need to cut her out. For her own good.

The thought pisses me off as soon as it forms.

No, it’s not for her. I don’t give a fuck about Faith Collins or what happens to her.

This is for me.

She’s dangerous, I remind myself. Not in the way most people are, with their knives and fists and threats. No, she’s dangerous in a way that feels more personal, more insidious.

She makes me think. Makes me feel.

And that’s the problem.

Because if I let her stay, if I keep letting her claw her way into my head, she’s going to tear me apart from the inside out.

I stub the joint out against the fence, the embers snuffing out with a faint hiss before I flick it aside. The buzz lingers but it doesn’t fucking fix anything.

My jaw clenches as I make my way back toward my cell. As soon as I step inside, the sound of my computer chiming cuts through the silence. I don’t need to look to know who it is.

I drop into the chair and tap the screen. I already know it’s going to piss me off.

Are you ignoring me, or do you just like playing hard to get?

What the fuck do you want, Faith? Huh? What’s your plan here? Make me fall in love with you? Ask me questions about my so-called “crimes,” then flash it all over the media? Write your big, bestselling exposé?

I pause, smirking bitterly at the screen before typing the next part.

Let me save you some time. Everything they’re saying out there is true. I’m a murderer. There. I fucking confessed it. Now go write your goddamn book and leave me the fuck alone.

You’re such a disgusting excuse for a human being.

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