Page 17 of Craving Venom

CHAPTER FIVE

THE BEAUTY

Iwake up to the dull throb of a headache pounding behind my eyes. Fucking Zane. His words are still rattling around in my head. I groan and press the heels of my hands into my temples. Yesterday was a mistake. Letting Zane Valehart get under my skin was a blunder.

I spent half the night rereading his messages, trying to figure out if there was some twisted truth in his words. Power, control, consequences, he speaks as though he knows the world inside out, but all I see is arrogance. It’s infuriating. This is what I always wanted, though, right? To get inside the mind of someone like him. But somehow, he’s the one crawling around in mine, planting seeds of doubt I can’t seem to shake.

Could he be right?

The thought creeps in and I crush it as quickly as it comes. No, he’s not right. He’s dangerous and manipulative, and I know better than to fall for this kind of shit. I won’t let him screw with my morals.

But I can’t stop looking at the messages. My phone is sitting on the nightstand, a silent temptation. I grab it before I can overthink, scrolling back through the thread. I want to tell him he’s full of shit. I want to prove it.

My fingers hover over the screen before I finally type.

Is this what you do all day? Lurk in the shadows and throw words at people until they start questioning their sanity?

To my surprise, the reply comes almost instantly.

You think you’re losing it already? Impressive.

I’m fine.

Sure you are. In fact, I’d bet good money that you’re sitting in your bed right now with your fake glasses on, curled up under a quilt like the good little girl you are.

I stop breathing for a second. My fingers tighten around the phone as I look around the room. My eyes dart to the corners, to the shadows that suddenly feel too dark. I shake my head and remind myself that he’s in prison. He’s behind bars, probably sitting in some shitty cell with a hundred miles of steel and concrete between us. There’s no fucking way he can see me.

Still, I can’t stop myself from glancing at the ceiling, at the walls, scanning for cameras. It’s ridiculous, paranoid even, but his words creep under my skin.

No. I’m not.

The lie feels hollow even as I send it, and I instantly regret it when his response comes.

Liar.

I sit straighter, gripping the phone tighter.

And now you’re sitting up, aren’t you? Fixing your posture as though that’s going to save you. Girls like you are predictable, Faith. You think you’re clever, but you’re an open book.

My pulse spikes. I stare at the screen, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

You love to think you’re brave, but the truth is, you’re scared. Youhidebehind screens, media, and books pretending to be this strong, untouchable version of yourself. You like the darkness when it’s safe, when it’s on your terms. A moody playlist, some late-night overthinking, and you think you’ve faced your demons. But the minute the real dark shit creeps in? The kind that doesn’t play by your rules? You fucking chicken out. Every time.

He’s wrong. He doesn’t know me. He can’t know me.

You don’t know a damn thing about me.

Don’t I?

No.

Here’s the thing, good girl. I’ve met a hundred versions of you. You’re all the same. Smart enough to be dangerous but too soft to really handle what comes with it. You flirt with danger because it makes you feelalive. It makes you feel different from all the other ‘good girls’ who live their safe, boring lives. But you’re not built for the fallout. You love the idea of danger, of dancing with the devil, but when the devil looks back at you? You hide.

You don’t scare me.

Then why are your hands shaking?

I glance down, and fuck, he’s right. My hands are trembling.

---