Page 165 of Craving Venom

Mark’s Adam’s apple jerks.

“All I saw was hunger,” I breathe. “Want. That twisted kind of need that’s too fucked to name.”

Mark shakes his head, but his eyes glass over with a desperate shine.

“She’s still scared,” he whispers.

“Of course she’s scared,” I snap. “That’s half the fucking point. You think pussy only gets wet when a girl’s wrapped in rose petals and given a diamond ring? You think fear and desire don’t live in the same goddamn bed?”

I move in closer, forcing him to breathe the words with me.

“You want me to be the villain so bad because you can’t live with what you did. You killed a man for her. Burned your whole life to ash. And she looked you in the face and said, ‘I didn’t ask for this.’”

I descend my head until my shadow covers him, blocking out the rest of the room.

“Now you see someone else go too far,” I keep going, “and you want to pin it all on them. But I’m not you. And Faith’s not her.”

He doesn’t try to fight it as his chest caves first. Then his face contorts as the first sob rips out of him. I step back to give him space to fall apart without a witness breathing down his neck. He slumps forward as his elbows drop to his knees. His whole body caves in, too weak to hold itself together.

“I don’t know who I am anymore. I was supposed to go to UCLA.”

He drags his palms over his face, trying to tear it off. “My name was already printed on half the season posters before the semester even started.”

He laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s broken glass under pressure.

“I was supposed to sign my letter of intent to UCLA. Mom even made cupcakes with footballs on ‘em. She printed out the scholarship letter and framed it.”

His head thumps back against the wall.

“The day I got arrested she stood up in court and told the judge…” He sucks in a breath sharp enough to slice open histhroat. “She said, ‘If the sentence comes back with death, I won’t object. I won’t cry. I won’t even visit his grave.’”

I grind my teeth in silent fury.

“She meant it, too.” His voice fractures. “She called me ‘a stranger who wore her son’s skin.’ Said she didn’t know where she went wrong and if she could go back, she’d take me out before I turned into a murderer.”

His fingers dig into his scalp as his nails rake through his hair, dragging skin with them. His lip splits trying to hold it together but he wipes it roughly, smearing tears and blood into one mess.

“And you know what? She was right.” His red eyes snap up. “I was a murderer. I killed that guy as if he meant nothing. I saw him on the sidewalk and I didn’t even think.”

His hands curl into fists in his lap.

“And for what?” His throat convulses. “For a lie.”

He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. He’s probably hoping it will cave in and crush him. “I’d give anything to be the version of me she baked those cupcakes for.”

He sniffles, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“She used to call me her miracle,” he mutters. “Said I was the reason she didn’t give up on life. That I was the only thing she ever did right.”

He looks at me, and there’s nothing left in those eyes.

“And now I’m the one thing she wants erased.”

I don’t feed him some bullshit line about how she’ll come around or how he’s still her son. I’m not that guy.

“I had scouts watching me since I was fifteen. The paper called me ‘unstoppable.’ Local news did a whole spread. Highlight reel, interviews, slow-mo tackles, the works. People used to chant my fucking name.”

His lip trembles. Just barely.

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