Page 293 of Craving Venom

“Do you even want to go?” I gasp between his mouth dragging down my neck and back up to mine.

“Fuck yeah,” he growls, biting my lower lip and kissing it better in the same breath. “I’ll be waiting for you there. I’ll be the man you deserve.”

The kiss turns deeper, messier. His hand fists my hair, and mine is still trembling around the trigger.

“But if you don’t—” kiss “pull the trigger—” kiss “and I survive…” His teeth graze my bottom lip. “I’ll be the monster you crave.”

“What if I go to hell?”

He pulls back just an inch. His eyes blaze into mine, wild and ruined.

“Definitely heaven,” he crashes his mouth to mine, tongues clashing, breath stolen.

Our mouths crash like we’re trying to kill each other with lust. His hand is still holding the gun around my wrist. His mouth devours mine, tongue sliding deep, groaning like he’s seconds from fucking me against this wall.

Three more gunshots rip through the air, and the kiss falters. His lips part against mine and then he’s gone. His body slips from my grasp and hits the ground before I can catch it.

I stare down at him. His blood stains my knees, my thighs, my fucking hands. Then I glance at the gun. My finger is still curved around the trigger.

Did I?

I don’t even remember firing. But he’s on the ground now, completely still, and I can’t tell if it was me who pulled the trigger… or someone else.

I drop to my knees before I even realize I’ve moved. My hands reach for him but all I feel is blood. It’s spilling from him like the world’s already made its choice.

“Zane,” I whisper, trying to press my hands against the wound on his chest, trying to hold in the life draining out of him. “Zane, stay with me. Please. Please.”

A cough tears from his throat and blood flecks his lips, a cruel bloom of red against teeth that had just kissed me.He grips my wrist. “You’re crying,” he mutters, dazed. “Shit. Don’t cry, baby… don’t cry for me…”

“Step away!” A police officer barks at me.

Zane tries to sit up, blood gurgling from his mouth. “Stay back,” he growls, eyes blazing. “Don’t touch her.”

A baton slams into his ribs.

“No—STOP! He’s down! He’s not—stop!” I cry out, trying to throw myself between them.

Zane roars as he swings at one of the cops. He gets one good punch in before another baton hits the side of his head. Then his stomach. Then his back. He goes down, and they don’t stop.

He tries to lunge again, even blood-soaked and barely breathing, but another blow lands, this time to his temple, and he crumples again.

I try to shove forward, try to reach for Zane, but a rough hand yanks me back by the arm.

“ZANE!”

He lifts his head, and our hands stretch for each other—just inches apart—fingertips brushing. For a heartbeat, we’re touching before they yank me back hard, and at the same time, a cop drives a baton into his stomach. He folds with a choked sound. Our fingers slip—no, they’rerippedapart—like tearing stitches from raw skin. As if the last thread holding me together just snapped with a scream I don’t have the breath to make.

I can still feel the shape of his hand in mine as they drag me away. Still feel the warmth. The promise.

Now broken.

I don’t cry because the pain is too sharp for tears. It sits in my throat as I watch them slam him to the ground and I can’t do anything,can’t help him, can’t even say his name because the breath has been knocked out of me by grief.

I’m not sure if it’s my heart breaking or just the sound of him hitting the floor again.

But either way, I’ll never forget the moment our hands let go. Not because we wanted to, but because the world tore us apart.

“Come on.” His hand presses lightly to my back. “Let’s get you out of here.”

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