Page 20 of Sweet Venom
The rain poursdown on me, plastering my torn shirt to my body, seeping into the cuts all over my face and chest.
I can’t walk anymore, so I sit by the bridge, my bloodied knuckles hanging off my bent knees, the sting of raw skin drowning beneath the downpour.
My body throbs, every nerve alight in the aftermath of my latest trial for Vencor. Physical. Fists, boots, words—the founding members wielded them all like weapons, and they made damn sure I felt every single one.
I was tasked with fighting my way out of a literal violence fest, and I did. Because Mom needs me to be powerful so I can protect her from this world. Regis—the man who contributed in making me—sure isn’t.
Julian has always said that the only way to protect those I love is to rise in the ranks, beat up those at the top, and take their place. It’s to make sure those who look up or covet my position would end up with a chopped-off neck.
There’s no room for weakness or second thoughts. A moment of hesitation can mean losing my mom—the only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally.
So I aced the trial, left the men who went against me in worse shape than me, and finished before even Kane and Preston.
I have to check on them, see how they did, but for now, I’m just…so fucking tired.
As I stare at the horizon where the deep clouds meet the lake, I find solace in the small patch of orange that’s trying to slip through. Despite the rain, despite the gloominess, there’s that little smidge of brightness that just refuses to give in.
And it gives me hope that I’m the patch of orange for my mom. The reason she’ll hold on to life.
But then it’s snuffed.
The sliver of orange is suffocated by the dark clouds, murdering any sense of expectation.
The rain pours, soaking through my clothes, dripping down my lashes, filling the spaces between my fingers with cold. It doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease, just keeps pounding against my skull like a slow, relentless hammer.
On and on as if attempting to rinse the blood off of me.
And failing miserably.
I just sit there, letting it drown out everything, staring at the pavement slick with water and blood.
Red is still a color in the darkness. If it’s the only hope I have, then so be it.
The rain stops.
No, it doesn’t.
Something’s blocked it.
A pair of beat-up sneakers come into view, water pooling around them, the edges darkened by the downpour. My gaze trails up, taking in the faded jeans clinging to slim legs, a black hoodie pulled low over a delicate face that’s covered by thick-framed glasses.
But they don’t manage to hide the deep-blue eyes.
Fuck. Those eyes.
I’m held hostage staring at them and the conflicted emotions they carry in the clear, bright blue—perturbed, soft, but also searching.
The girl holds an umbrella over our heads, the fabric sagging under the weight of the rain.
Blue. Just a shade lighter than her eyes.
She’s angled it more at me, letting the downpour soak the shoulders of her hoodie, dripping on her worn-out backpack.
There’s no flinching, no hesitation. Not at the sight of my busted lip, the split skin stretched tight over my cheekbone, or the blood smeared on my face and down my throat.
Not even at my clothes, torn and damp, clinging to me like the last evidence of a fight I barely walked away from.
No disgust.
