Page 189 of Sweet Venom
A distinctive noise reaches our ears first.
The wet, rhythmic sound of a blade sinking into flesh.
It grows louder by the second.
Slash.
Slash.
Slash.
The gurgle of blood echoes in the air as I bang the door open, pointing my gun ahead.
The scent of thick, metallic blood is the first thing that hits me. It clings to the air, coats the walls, and seeps into the floorboards.
Someone beat us to Marguerite and is currently straddling her on the huge bed.
His shoulders hunch and straighten with each brutal thrust of the knife, the blade flashing before disappearing again, buried deep in what was once Marguerite Armstrong.
Her face is disfigured, and her once blonde hair is soaked in red.
It’s everywhere.
The blood.
The bed, the sheets, the floor, and even on the man who’s performing what looks like a creepy stabbing ritual, completely controlled and unbothered.
Through the bloody haze, Kane and I see him clearly.
Marcus.
The man who’s turned Marguerite into a canvas of slaughter.
He doesn’t stop stabbing her.
Not when we enter, not when the door groans under Kane’s push. Almost as if he’s disconnected from reality.
“The fuck are you doing here?” I growl, pure rage rippling into my tone because he took away my revenge.
For Violet.
For Preston.
This motherfucker confiscated my last string of vengeance.
Marcus’s head jerks up as if pulled from a trance, and fora split second, his expression is full of pure, raw bloodlust. His eyes are wide, dilated, a feverish glow sparking behind them, something wild and feral.
He looks no different than an animal after a kill. His mouth is slightly parted, breaths coming in uneven gasps.
His entire body is drenched in red.
It drips down his arms, is smeared across his face in rivulets, and his clothes are soaked through.
The blade gleams, slick and wet, his fingers gripping it so tight, the tendons in his wrist stand out, stark against the carnage staining his skin.
Then slowly—too slowly—he tilts his head, a grin cutting across his bloody face, marring his teeth in red. “Took you long enough. I got a little…impatient.”
His voice is hoarse, low, like he’s been whispering to himself between every stab.
