Page 18 of Sweet Venom
I should be home, but I don’t have one of those.
My only home—my mother—was ripped from between my fingers in a gruesome scene.
So here I am again.
Tilting on the edge of violence, rage, and…something else I can’t quite pinpoint.
I lean against my bike, my arms crossed, the chilly night air curling around me like a ghost.
I barely feel it against my leather jacket slipping off me, like I’m made of something the cold can’t touch. My helmet stays on, visor down, turning the world into a dim, distorted reflection. I prefer it this way—keeps the filth at arm’s length.
Across from me, ‘HAVEN’ glows in flickering neon blue, casting a sickly light over the cracked sidewalk and the half-smoked cigarette butts crushed into the pavement.
The irony of the name isn’t lost on me. This place is no fucking haven—just another Stantonville hole-in-the-wall where men rot from the inside out and women learn to smile through it.
The air is thick with the stench of old beer, fried grease, and sickening desperation.
Stantonville is a shithole, always has been. Its streets sag under the weight of rusted-out cars, busted streetlights, and people who stopped trying a long time ago. A far fucking cry from Graystone Ridge, where power drips from every surface and the world bends to the will of men like me.
But even in this dump,shestands out.
Through the bar’s hazy windows, I catch a glimpse of her moving behind the counter, wiping down glasses, her mouth set in a small line.
She looks like she belongs here. And at the same time, like she doesn’t.
Violet Winters is a contradiction of epic proportions.
Starting with her hair. It’s not red, not blonde, but something in between, like fire and honey tangled together. It’s a little messy, just past her shoulders, with strands that slip from behind her ear when she moves too fast.
Then her face. Too soft and full of disturbing innocence for a place like this. Heart-shaped, delicate, like something carved from porcelain and left in the hands of men who don’t know how to handle fragile things.
I’m one of those men who keep just…wanting to break her fucking neck. See that face shattered to pieces right beneath my shoe.
But one of the biggest contradictions?
Her eyes, blue and troubled but not the type that fade into the background. No. They slice through shadows, searching, like she’s always looking for something that’s just out of reach.
Like right now.
She stares out the window and freezes. Her hand holding the glass shakes uncontrollably and she drops it on the counter.
I don’t hear the shatter, but I see it. In the slight jump in her shoulders and the way her lips form anO. I can almostfeelthe tremors racking her body like when I cornered her in that filthy alley last night.
Violet Winters is scared of me. No.Terrified.
She should be.
Because Kane and Preston are right. All my previous targets are buried six feet under, and she’ll join them.
Soon.
The bartender, a tall guy with a buzz cut, checks on her, and she flinches slightly, but then she forces her lips into this mechanical smile as she picks up the shards of glass.
With her bare fucking hands.
Naturally, she pricks her finger, and the bartender grabs her hand and presses a napkin on it, saying something to which she smiles.
Awkwardly.
