Page 86 of Sweet Venom
Before I can reach him, a fist grips my hair and yanks me back.
Pain explodes across my scalp, my neck snapping at the force. A hand clamps over my mouth, suffocating my scream. My vision blurs as I thrash, my nails digging into flesh and clawing, but another blow crashes against the side of my head.
White-hot agony splinters through my skull.
The world tilts violently, the pavement rising up to meet me as the edges of my vision darken.
Through the haze, I see Mario reaching out to me, and my fingers twitch, but I can’t touch him.
“What about him?” one of the voices murmurs, gruff and low and seeming to reach me from underground.
“Collateral damage,” another replies as my eyes roll back. “We need to take care of her. Now.”
So this is it.
The end?
A tear slides down my cheek as I watch Mario’s motionless body bleeding out on the pavement.
Then everything goes black.
Pain.
That’s the first thing I register. A deep, dull throb in myskull radiates behind my eyes, tightening with every sluggish beat of my pulse.
The room is too bright, sterile white walls stretching for as far as I can see, the steadybeep, beep, beepof a heart monitor filling the silence.
I blink against the burn of artificial light, the effort sending another sting of pain through my head. My mouth is so dry that every breath feels like sandpaper at the back of my throat.
My limbs are heavy like I’ve been weighed down with something thick and invisible. The nightmare…?
No, it’s dark in my nightmares, not this…white.
Where am I?
My body freezes when I turn my head and realize I’m not alone.
A man sits on a large leather chair beside my bed, his long fingers leisurely turning the pages of a book, the smooth rustle of paper the only sound slicing through the mechanical beeps of the machines.
He’s well-dressed—tailored navy slacks and a crisp white shirt that looks too perfect for a hospital setting. Not a wrinkle, not a misplaced thread. His tie is loosened just enough to suggest comfort rather than carelessness, and his jacket is folded neatly and draped over the back of an empty chair.
His posture is relaxed, one ankle resting over his knee, but there’s an unsettling precision in the way he holds himself, like he’s used to being watched and controlling every movement he makes.
Who is he…?
My gaze drags up to his face, and my mouth hangs open.
His eyes.
Dark brown, deep, unreadable, and disturbingly familiar. The type that don’t just look at you, but through you.
Jude’s ruthless eyes.
But this man lacks the raw, untamed fire Jude carries in his stare. These are colder, more refined, sharpened into something surgical. His dark hair is neatly styled, not a strand out of place, and the faintest trace of expensive cologne lingers in the air.
Brother? Uncle?
He seems to be in his early thirties, not old enough to be Jude’s dad.
