Page 16 of Sweet Venom

All because of her.

All because of Poe.

Chapter

Four

THE CURSE OF CUPID’S ARROW

Poe

“Love isn’t a fairytale. Love it’s just a well-marketed illusion.”– P

Shit.

I was late.

In my defense, it wasn’t entirely my fault. My stupid phone alarm hadn’t gone off. Well… okay, fine, maybe I’d forgotten to set it. But in my defense—again—I was dead tired from unpacking all my worldly possessions into my tiny apartment, which, for the record, absolutely hated me. Add to that the anxiety and excitement about the day’s meeting, and you had the perfect recipe for me popping a couple of sleeping pills the night before. The pills had worked like a charm because I’d slept like the dead—and if it weren’t for Prince, I would’ve slept through the whole day and missed my meeting with Blackthorn Publishing.

And now here I was…panicked, hair resembling a bird’s nest, and late enough to make the worst possible first impression.

I couldn’t be late. Why the hell had I taken the melatonin?

Stay calm, Poe. Don’t let the anxiety win. You’re okay. But move. Hurry the hell up.

I listened to the voice in my head—the one that usually helped me pull my shit together.

I darted to the mirror, pausing just long enough to take in my reflection. It was… fine. Passable. Notcompletelytragic. I’d thrown on my trusty baggy jeans—the ones that screamedeffortlessinstead ofI’m late and gave up—a plain white tee, and a black blazer. The blazer was doing a lot of heavy lifting, trying to make the whole look sayprofessionalinstead ofdisheveled hot mess.

With a frustrated sigh, I ran a hand through my blue hair, trying to tame it—but it was a lost cause. Fine. We were going withquirky author, I told myself.Or maybe relatable hot mess.That was a thing, right?

“Brush your hair, Poe. It looks like you haven’t washed it in days.”

I sighed and stomped into the bathroom, muttering under my breath about how my hair was actively conspiring against me. It looked like I’d fought a monkey and lost. I turned on the faucet and splashed water over my wild hair until it was damp enough to force into submission. Then I grabbed the brush and started hacking through the tangles like I was on some kind of personal vendetta.

After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only three minutes—I finally wrangled my hair into a low bun. To my surprise, it actually looked… cute. NotPinterest-boardcute, but cute enough that I didn’t immediately want to rip it out and start over.

“Okay,” I muttered to my reflection, tucking a stray strand behind my ear. “This’ll have to do.”

Then I looked down at my bare feet—and froze.

“Shit. Where are my socks? Myluckysocks?”

Well… they were technically my mom’s, but she’d given them to me during my first anxiety attack when I was seven and had to read a short story in front of the class. All those eyes had freaked me the hell out.

I spun around in the bathroom like maybe the socks were hiding behind the toilet or stuck to the shower curtain. Nothing. My heart started pounding as I bolted back into the war zone I called my apartment, tearing through piles of clothes, tossing shirts and shoes like I was hunting for treasure.

I flung open another drawer. “Where are you?” I hissed. “IknowI put you in here, you traitors!”

“Are you talking to your socks again?”

My brother Vade’s voice crackled through my laptop, which was perched precariously on the kitchen counter amidst a graveyard of dirty wine glasses. His face—a disturbingly perfect replica of our dad’s—stared at me from the screen. White hair swept back, sharp jawline, tattoos crawling up his neck like they were alive. He looked effortlessly dangerous. A carbon copy of our father, yes—but all Uncle Enzo in spirit. Bloodthirsty, chaotic, and gleefully rebellious.

Ignoring him, I lunged for a pile of black clothes on the desk chair.

“Ugh, I’m going to be so late, Vade. So late—and I need my black socks.” I sounded unhinged.

“You have, like, twenty pairs of black socks, Poe,” he said, sipping what Ireallyhoped wasn’t his fourth whiskey of the morning. He wore a plain black tee, his tattoos on full display, and sat there looking annoyingly composed. “Just grab another pair and stop bitching.”

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