Page 91 of Craving Venom

I watch the world pass by through the smudged window. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve seen this many people outside the jumpsuits, outside the same fucking walls, day in and day out.The city looks different when you’re not locked up, but I don’t give a shit about any of it.

Because my mind keeps circling back to one thing. One girl.

Faith.

She left her fucking mark on me. Not just the scratches, not just the sting where her nails sank into my skin. No, something deeper. Something festering. I close my eyes, but she’s still there. The car hums beneath me, but I don’t feel it. My body is still tuned to hers, still aching for the way she clenched, the way she fought, the way she fucking broke.

She thinks this is over. That I’ll disappear. She’s naive. I don’t lose things I want. I don’t let them slip away. And I fucking want her.

Hunger is a dull ache, a gnawing thing that willpower can suppress. But thirst? Thirst consumes. It scratches at your throat, sears your insides, makes every thought about quenching it. Faith doesn’t just make me thirsty—she makes me parched in a way no water could ever soothe. One drop of her, and I crave a flood.

The world loves to pretend there’s a line between good and evil. I don’t just cross it—I fucking set it on fire. Pain doesn’t hold me back, morality doesn’t restrain me. There’s no conscience in me, no line I won’t cross. There’s nothing redeemable about me. I don’t have a tragic backstory, or a secret heart of gold. I’m not misunderstood. I’m exactly as fucking awful as I seem.

I flex my fingers. They still ache, still sting where blood and glass kissed my skin, but it’s a small price. I’d tear my own flesh open if it meant feeling her again.

“You’re lucky I’m the one bringing you in,” Kyle says, breaking through my thoughts.

I glance at him in the rearview mirror. “That so?”

“Yeah.” His grip tightens. “Because if it were anyone else, they’d be asking why the fuck you’re smiling.”

“Because I always win, Kyle,” I say flashing my teeth.

The weights feel like nothing in my hands.

I should be burning out, should be pushing myself to the edge of exhaustion, but I don’t feel shit. Not the strain, not the fatigue, not the release I fucking need.

My cock is still hard. Still. Hours later, and nothing has dulled the ache. The freezing shower didn’t help. Neither did the pull of iron in my grip, or the bruises blooming under my skin.

I tighten my grip on the bar as I push the barbell up.

Footsteps echo through the gym.

I don’t need to look up to know who it is.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mark mutters.

I press the weight upward before letting it drop onto the rack with a heavy clang. “Good to see you too.”

Mark crosses his arms, watching as I sit up. “You gave up your life for one night.”

I grab a towel, wiping the sweat from my neck. “And?”

“You don’t even know that woman—”

“My woman,” I cut in.

“Jesus, Zane. You do realize you could end up on death row for this, right?”

“I knew the consequences when I made the deal.”

Mark’s nostrils flare. “You don’t care.”

I let the towel drop onto the bench beside me and rest my elbows on my knees. “Is that why you’re here? To remind me how doomed I am?”

Mark shakes his head. “No.” His expression shifts, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “I’m here because I want you to teach me how to fight.”

That grabs my attention.

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