Page 75 of Sweet Venom

“I did it because I could,” he muttered firmly.

The simplicity of it hit me. As if that sweet gesture hadn’t changed everything. As if he hadn’t just rewritten our story with one decision. As if he hadn’t just handed me my dream.

Before I could speak, his voice softened. Almost… sweet.

“You don’t have to thank me, little fox. I don’t need your gratitude.” He paused, then added, “I need you to believe in yourself more.”

Little fox.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

And just like that, my breath caught. My heart stopped for a moment.

I opened my mouth, but no words came. Nothing.

He had no idea what those words meant to me. What that nickname meant to me. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the most frightening part. What is happening? Why this sudden change? Why now after so many years?

I leaned back into my seat, feeling suddenly more exposed than ever. This wasn’t just about books or success. It wasn’t about Miami or even the chase of a better story to publish. Not anymore. It didn’t feel like that. One day changed everything.

This was about him.

And me.

And something that felt like the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for but had secretly always hoped and dreamed for.

“So,” I said, forcing a small smile to hide the rush of emotions taking over my defenses. “Are we done chasing romance now?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes locked onto mine, sharper now.

“We haven’t even begun,” he said, voice low, rough, and sure.

My heart skipped many beats. Or maybe stopped.

Because whatever was happening between us—this tension, this pull—it wasn’t in my head.

It was real.

And from what he just said it wasn’t over.

It had just begun.

The1955 Mercedes-Benz300 SLR Uhlenhaut Coupéwe were riding in was a masterpiece. The kind of car you only see inglossy magazines, old Hollywood films… or parked in the garage of your favorite crime boss uncle.

Yes,thatkind of car.

Uncle Enzo owns two. According to him, they’re the only ones in the country— though something tells me he won’t be thrilled to know his longtime rival-slash-enemy’s son, Azariel, has one too.

The Mercedes’ sleek black exterior shimmered under the night sky, catching the light in a way that made it look like it was made of liquid coal. The car didn’t drive—it glided, like a predator slipping through the veins of New York.

And I couldn’t stop staring at it. I was in awe.

My obsession with vintage and fast cars should probably be studied. Most women my age are into makeup, fitness, and self-care. And although I try my best to keep up with all of that, I’m not obsessive. I’m more of a fashion, poetry, and cars kind of gal.

Every curve of this old-time machine was perfection—from the sculpted fenders to the narrow headlights that glowed faintly, like the eyes of something wild and watching. It felt like the car had a soul. Like it was born from a different time, a time when things were built to last—when beauty had weight, and elegance had sharp teeth.

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