Page 155 of Sweet Venom

And I would make sure he knew that.

The fucker was chainedto the cold, damp wall of the dimly lit room. His wrists were bound above his head, his body slumped, unconscious, and utterly at my mercy. I stood a few feet away, watching him, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction settle deep in my chest. This was the picture I wanted to see since the fucker laid his hands on her. I had to keep my rage in check and take care of her before I went hunting.

That moment is here.

Martin— I learned that’s his name—groaned as he began to stir, his bloody and broken body jerking slightly, pulling at the chains. It wouldn’t take long before he woke up, and when he did, he would see me standing before him, waiting. The fear of death would come soon enough.

But as I stood there, I couldn’t help but let my mind drift to the bigger picture. This was not just about revenge for what he did to Poe. No, this went deeper than that. This motherfucker was a monster, not just because he hurt my girl, but because he hurt so many others. He had a long track record of hurting kids and of ruining their innocence.

He signed his death sentence the second he puts his hands-on Poe but he made it worst for himself when I found out the shit he did to those kids.

I’m making sure that someone like him could never hurt another soul again.

I watched him struggle against the chains, his breath ragged as he finally blinked his eyes open and focused on me.

“W-what’s happening?”

It took a moment for recognition to settle in. When it did, his face twisted, eyes wide with fear, realizing that he wasn’t in his apartment and that his body was covered in bruises. The look of panic that spread across his face made my pulse quicken. I smiled.

I didn’t say anything at first. I didn’t need to say shit. I wanted the fucker to feel it—the absolute isolation, the hopelessness. I wanted him to understand the terror those kids must have felt, to know that his own suffering was about to begin. I wanted him to feel pain just like Poe did.

I thought of her again, the image of her terrified green eyes and her shaking hands after the attack, and it made the fury burn hotter within me. This piece of shit deserved more than just pain. He deserved to know that every life he destroyed, every innocence he stole, was now coming back on him in full force. Those lives he ruined are here in this room waiting for justice to be served.

I stepped closer, the dim light casting shadows over Martin’s face, making his panic more pronounced. Good. He’s terrified. He should be.

“You fucked with the wrong woman,” I whispered, my voice low but sharp with venom. “Mine.”

His lips trembled, his eyes darting around, searching for any way out, but there was no escape. He won’t escape this hell.

I walked toward him, slowly, like a predator circling its prey.

“Do you remember her face? Her terrified face as you put your disgusting hands on her? How you dragged her down to the ground trying to steal from her?” I asked, each word laced with cold fury.

His face twisted in confusion, then he remembered.

There was no sympathy in my eyes, no mercy in my voice. There was only the certainty that this would be his last night with air in his lungs and blood in his veins.

I let the silence stretch.

Let it thicken. Let it suffocate.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The flicker of fear in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. The moment when he saw me coming and knew that he sealed his fate that was what I’d waited for. Long days. Even longer nights.

And now here it was.

That sick bastard would regret ever laying a hand on Poe. On any of them. Every child he touched and murdered left a mark. And now I’d left mine.

I stepped in close, close enough to hear his breath catch, to feel the tremble in his bones. I drew my knives slowly, deliberately. These knives are tools, not weapons. I was about to make art.

And Martin was my fucked-up canvas.

I carved into his skin with hatred, each cut a sentence, each cry a fuel to my madness. Blood fell down his body like crimson shades on a palette. His screams were music to my ears.

When his voice finally broke, when the last threads of his mind began to snap, I leaned in and drew one clean line across his throat. Soft. Almost tender. So fucking sweet.

It was done.

He was done.

---