Page 129 of Craving Venom

“Fine,” he grumbles. “See you at dawn.”

I wave him off, stepping further into the shadows, but before I get too far, he calls after me.

“By the way,” he mutters, “your body double is more annoying than you.”

I bark out a laugh, my steps never slowing. “Impossible.”

Luke chuckles under his breath, shaking his head, then turns back toward the hospital.

Faith sleeps like she has no reason to fear the world.

Like she’s untouchable. Like she doesn’t have a monster watching her breathe. I lean back in the chair I pulled into the corner. My arms are resting on my thighs and my fingers itching.

For what? I don’t know.

Maybe to touch.

Maybe to take.

Maybe to remind her exactly who she belongs to.

Instead, I watch.

Her face is relaxed, lips parted, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The blankets are tangled around her waist,exposing her bare arms, the curve of her back, the soft skin of her thigh peeking out from under her sleep shorts.

Her cheek is squished against the pillow, making her look ridiculously cute. Like she’s dreaming about puppies instead of being watched by a man who’s killed more people than she probably realizes.

My eyes fix on the vein in her forehead, the one that shows up when she’s pissed off, when she’s thinking too hard, or about to say something that’ll make me want to bite her. It’s there now, even in her sleep, pulsing as if it’s mocking me. I glare at it.

Who the fuck obsesses over a vein?

Apparently, I do.

I watch her shift, and the sheet slips lower, dragging across the dip of her spine. The light from the window slices across her skin, catching on the fine hairs of her skin.

She doesn’t know what it does to me.

The smooth stretch of her stomach, the soft curve just above her hip bone, are all fragile places. Places I could bruise with my mouth or my hands if I wanted to. If I let go. If I gave in to the thing inside me that wakes up when she’s near and never fully sleeps when she’s not.

I drag my gaze down her legs. There’s a freckle high on her inner thigh and I want to press my mouth to it until she stirs. Until she wakes up and sees what she does to me even in sleep. Especially in sleep. I want to bite her where it hurts. I want to mark her so deep she never forgets who watches her like this. Who owns this view.

Her shorts ride up just enough that if I moved an inch closer, I could fix it, but I don’t. I just stare, letting the want crawl under my skin, obsessed with every detail, especially the moles I’ve memorized like landmarks, each one driving me a little more insane.

My cock twitches at the thought, at the absolute fucking audacity of her to sleep so peacefully, so untouched by the chaos I’ve woven around her.

And the best part?

She has no idea.

The gift I brought her moves a little too close. My fingers curl around it, plucking it away from her. She doesn’t stir. Even with the movement, the slight but audible noise, she sleeps on.

A single strand of hair clings to her cheek. I brush it away, just barely letting my fingertips graze her skin. She shifts, a small noise slipping from her lips before she melts back into the pillow, lost to sleep again.

If I were a good man, I’d let her sleep.

Let her rest in peace before I rip it away.

But I am not a good man.

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