Page 282 of Craving Venom

“Actually… make it four.”

I’m definitely fucking her tonight.

She rolls her eyes and looks away, but I catch the way her thighs tingle. Terry groans and hangs up without another word.

“How do you keep escaping prison?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me sooner.”

“Your grandfather built that prison.” Her eyes glide to my jaw, to my hands, then back up. “You’re a Valehart. It’s not impossible to believe you’ve got connections or guards in your pocket.”

She’s not wrong. She’s just not right, either.

“My grandfather cut ties with me years ago, and my last name has nothing to do with how I get out.”

“So what, you just charm your way out and enter my room while I’m sleeping?”

A grin pulls at my mouth. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

She shoots me a glare, but her lips twitch right after, betraying the smile she’s trying to swallow.

I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on my thigh. “Charm doesn’t get you far in a cell built for monsters. Not unless charm comes with blood and blueprints.”

She doesn’t say anything, so I give her what she really wants.

“In the heart of the prison, there’s a corridor most people don’t even know exists. The floor plan hides it behind solitary, masked by identical wall panels that only shift under timed pressure. You step on the wrong tile, nothing happens. You get the sequence right, and the wall slides open.”

“How do you know that pattern?”

“Remember when you said my grandfather built this prison?”

She nods slowly, suspicion creeping across her face.

“Well… when he started working on the layout, I was six. I used to sit in his study while he drafted the blueprints. Sometimes he’d hum. Other times he’d talk to himself, ramble about structural weaknesses, pressure points, emergency exits. I didn’t understand half of it. But I watched. I listened. Every line he drew, every revision he cursed over, it stuck.”

Her eyes narrow further. “And you remember all that?”

“I have a photographic memory.”

“Okay, and what does that even mean? Like… you glance at something once and it just stays in your head forever?”

“Not forever,” I say, stretching my legs out a little. “But long enough. It’s called eidetic recall. I don’t just remember words, I remember angles, handwriting, stains on paper. If I saw the blueprint once, I still see it. Every line. Every measurement. Every fault.”

Her mouth parts slightly, and I can tell she’s trying to decide if that’s terrifying or impressive.

“Think of it this way,” I add, “you read a book and remember the story. I remember the number of words on each page, the way the ink looked when it smudged, and how many times the writer scratched something out before getting it right.”

She snorts. “Right. That’s cute. Sounds fake, but okay.”

I raise a brow, pretending to be offended. “You think I’m bullshitting?”

“I think you’re a manipulative bastard who’d say anything to make himself sound smarter than he is.”

“Alright,” I say, turning in my seat just enough to face her. “Pop quiz, good girl. How many moles do you have?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

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