Page 232 of Craving Venom

Sebastian huffs. “You’re building empathy for a man who slit a congressman’s throat with a pizza slicer. And him letting the kid go means nothing. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood to skin anyone under four feet tall.”

“I’m building context,” I snap. “You call him a psychopath like it’s a diagnosis. You don’t know what’s driving him. For all you know, every person he’s gutted deserved it.”

He gives me a look like I’ve grown two heads, but I don’t back down.

“There’s a difference between being a monster and being someone who’s been driven to act like one. The way he killed that judge? That was personal. That was theater. That was rage with purpose.”

“You sound like you’ve been reading Reddit threads again.”

“I sound like I’m using my brain,” I bite back. “You ever consider maybe your agency can’t catch him because you’re too busy trying to box him into a clinical diagnosis that doesn’t fit?”

“CIA’s working on it.” Sebastian levels a look at me. “We’ve got analysts, tech, pattern tracking, psychological profiling from people with actual degrees. No offense, but I’m not taking behavioral strategy tips from r/crimejunkiesgonewild.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my own regrets.

“Fine. But don’t come crying to me when he guts another douchebag and leaves a coded message in their colon.”

“That better not be an actual subreddit.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Anyway.” Sebastian sets his now-empty cup aside, “I didn’t come here for you to teach me how to do my job.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose like I’m the migraine he can’t file paperwork against.

“I came here to tell you to stay in your dorm. Or stay where there are people. Don’t walk alone, don’t wander off campus, and if anyone follows you, call me directly.”

I nod like I’m listening, but my brain is tuned out.

I already know what’s coming next. The lecture wrapped in concern. The rules disguised as love. Sebastian’s got this way of pretending he’s briefing a colleague when really, he’s trying not to show his hands are shaking.

Ever since my parents found me in that basement—

I press my nails into my thigh, sharp enough to ground me.

Ever sincethat, he’s been… different. Smothering. Overattentive. The way his eyes scan every room before I walk in, the way he memorizes exits like we might need one any second. He’s never said it, never needed to.

But I know.

He blames himself for what happened. For not getting there sooner. For the two days I spent locked in a space that was suffocating me.

He’s never forgiven himself for it.

And I’ve never told him it’s okay.

Because it’s not.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE MONSTER

The rain slicks my gloves as I crouch against the rear service wall of The Aether Club. Pinks and purples bleed down the alley, spilling across the pavement. The back of the club is nothing but dumpsters, security cameras, a rusted utility ladder bolted into the wall, a half-hearted excuse for an escape route.

“Camera blind spot in three... two... now,” Terry speaks in my ear.

I hook a rope to the drainpipe and scale it with practiced ease because I’ve done this a hundred times. My boots don’t make a sound. I stop beneath the third-floor vent, fish the can of acid spray from my belt, and fog the sensor until the lens pops and sizzles.

I jam the flathead under the vent cover and wedge it loose. Terry croons in my ear, already pulling blueprints, recalculating thermal reads. I slide inside and land in the ceiling crawlspace above the private lounges. The music pulses through the floor, a heartbeat built on bass, drowning in sex and secrets.

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