Page 29 of Sweet Venom
The bar hums with low chatter, the thunk of glass against wood, the distant echo of laughter swallowed up by the bass-heavy music filtering through the speakers.
The usual crowd is gathered under the neon haze of ‘HAVEN’ like sinners seeking temporary absolution.
I work on autopilot, pouring drinks, wiping spills, and nodding along to slurred conversations that don’t require real listening. But then?—
Something shifts.
My skin prickles as if the air has been punctured, the oxygen thickening and darkening in increments.
I don’t see him at first. Ifeelhim.
Like a storm pressing in before the first crack of lightning.
Jude strides in, dressed in black, built like a wall.
No, a warning.
A threat.
The low amber glow from the bar lights drags over him, sharpening every edge, casting shadows where shadows shouldn’t be. His black T-shirt stretches across his torso, and my eyes widen upon seeing what’s on his half-exposed arms.
Full sleeves of unintelligible ink.
They stand out like marks of war, like a language only monsters speak.
He moves like he owns the place. Like he ownseverything.
And I hate that my pulse stutters at the sight of him.
That my entire body tenses and my senses go on high alert.
I grip the bar towel tighter, pressing my fingers into the damp fabric, forcing myself to breathe.
Because he shouldn’t be here.
Henevercomes inside.
He’s only ever been outside, lurking like something too big, too sharp, too dangerous to step into the light.
But he’s here now.
Like he was in my home last night.
Why…?
He sits beside Mario, but his presence carries a different kind of weight. Where Mario blends into the background, Jude shifts the entire atmosphere.
His arms rest on the bar, muscles coiled under the sleeves of black ink. Serpentine scales wrap around his forearm, climbing, coiling, each ridge and curve etched with such precise detail that I can almost feel the rough texture beneath my fingers.
A skull is inked on his wrist, cracked and hollow-eyed, as if it’s seen too much and survived anyway. Thorn-covered vines twist through the gaps, weaving between bone and shadow, like something alive waiting to bite.
Jude doesn’t glance at me. Not at first. He just taps his fingers against the counter in a slow, deliberate motion.
Then he speaks in a voice that snakes down my spine and settles in places it shouldn’t. “Double bourbon. No ice.”
His detached, dissecting gaze lifts toward me, and it’s as if he’s seeing straight through me, peeling me apart layer by layer.
I hate that Jude makes me feel this way.
