Page 54 of Craving Venom

I drum my fingers against my desk, staring at the message. Faith never just disappears mid-conversation, especially not when she’s winning.

For all I know, she could’ve just passed out, maybe crashed after all that murder-planning adrenaline wore off. But still… something about the silence feels off.

I hover over the keyboard, debating whether to text her again.

It would be easy. One quick message. But I don’t fucking do that. I don’t check in.

So I don’t send it.

Instead, I push back from my desk, running a hand down my face. It’s been years—years—since I last felt indecisive. I don’t even remember the last time I sat around wondering whether or not to say something.

I grab a blank canvas and my fingers reach for the paint tubes. The scent of acrylic hits me as I pop the caps, squeezing out colors without thinking.

Blue. Gray. White. A touch of pink.

I roll my sleeves up, flex my fingers, and press them straight into the paint. My fingers have always done a better job, they know how to shape things exactly how I want them, how to get every goddamn detail right.

I start with the eyes.

Wide. A shade that could switch between blue and gray, depending on the light.

I swipe my thumb through the paint, blending it, shaping it, until the eyes stare back at me. They’re expressive. Almost too much.

I move to the rest of the face, forming delicate lines with my fingertips, smoothing the curve of high cheekbones, the arch of sharp eyebrows. The slight slope of a nose, the soft fullness of lips. Blonde hair spills around the edges of the canvas, waves that almost move when I smudge them just right.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but when I finally straighten, my fingers are stained in color and my chest is rising and falling harder than it should.

She’s beautiful.

And I don’t even know if the painting does her justice.

I stare at the painting for a moment longer before shaking my head and shoving it aside. This is fucking ridiculous.

I wipe my hands on an old rag, tossing the paint-covered thing onto the floor. Then I head to my bunk, lying back against the shitty mattress, staring at the ceiling.

The prison hums with its usual sounds—muffled voices, the occasional clank of metal, the distant bark of a guard. White noise. The kind of shit you learn to tune out if you want to get any sleep in this hellhole.

But then I hear a noise from the next cell over. It’s quiet at first. Muffled.

Then it escalates.

A struggle. A fucking whimper.

I’m on my feet before I even think about it. At first, I assume it’s Mark being a nuisance again. Wouldn’t be the first time. But then I hear a threatening voice, not Mark’s.

My jaw clenches.

I step out of my cell and approach the bars of the next one. The shitty lighting barely does anything, but I don’t need to see much.

Some piece-of-shit inmate has Mark pressed up against the wall. I slam the door open and grab the guy by the collar before he even realizes I’m there. He squeaks, but I don’t give him time to say shit.

I drag him out of the cell, shoving him forward. He stumbles, trying to catch his footing, but I don’t let up.

We’re going outside.

The yard.

Where the guards don’t give a fuck what happens.

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