Page 14 of Craving Venom

“What do you mean?”

I gesture lazily toward the screen. “That thing’s a portal to the minds of horny, desperate bitches who think they can ‘fix’ guys like us. Or you’ll find a bunch of 13-year-olds who think they’re mature beyond their years. Oh, and let’s not forget the haters who’ll hate you for something you did that had nothing to do with them.”

“So, you’re saying it’s basically useless?”

“Pretty much.”

He hesitates for a second before stepping closer. “Actually… can I try it?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Knock yourself out, Milo. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I watch as he pulls up a chair and starts typing. His fingers move across the keyboard, and soon enough, he’s staring at the inbox. “Whoa, over five thousand unread messages.”

I cross my arms as I watch Mark scroll through the messages. His face shifts between curiosity and disgust, his eyes flicking over subject lines like “Rehabilitating the Misunderstood” and “A Second Chance at Redemption.”

“Five bucks says they’re all garbage,” I say.

“Not taking that bet.” Mark narrows his eyes at the screen. “This one looks different, though. ‘Psychology grad student researching criminal minds.’” He glances at me. “What do you think?”

I groan, pushing off the wall. “That category? It’s worse than the horny bitches, the try-hard kids, and the haters combined.”

Mark swivels in the chair, grinning. “Really? Worse than the haters?”

“Absolutely,” I snap. “At least the haters are honest about being assholes. Psych students? They think they’ve got us all figured out. Like they’re fucking Sherlock Holmes with a degree.” I sneer, pacing a few steps. “They sit there in their cozy little classrooms, reading their bullshit textbooks, thinking they understand people like us. They don’t know a damn thing.”

Mark chuckles, shaking his head. “Touchy subject, huh?”

“Not touchy. Just fucking annoying.” I gesture toward the screen. “They’re all the same. They always try to stick a label on you. ‘Sociopath,’ ‘narcissist,’ ‘trauma victim.’ Like we’re fucking case studies instead of people.”

“So, what I’m hearing is… you’re scared of them.”

I freeze mid-step, turning slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you heard me.” He shrugs, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’re scared. Afraid they’ll hit a nerve or call you out on your bullshit.”

I laugh, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “You think I give a fuck what some wannabe shrink thinks of me?”

“Prove it,” he says, holding my gaze.

“What?”

“Reply to them.”

I scoff. “I don’t waste my time on amateurs.”

“You’re just chicken. Big, bad Zane, afraid of a little email.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Careful, kid. You’re walking a fine fucking line.”

“Come on,” he mocks. “What’s the worst that could happen? They try to ‘analyze’ you? Write some thesis about how ‘broken’ you are? Who gives a shit?”

For a moment, I just stare at him, my fists clenching at my sides. Then I smirk, pulling the chair out from under him and taking his spot.

“Fine,” I say, cracking my knuckles.

Mark watches as I start typing. My words hit the screen like punches:

Dear Aspiring Headshrinker, Congrats on choosing the most pretentious way to waste your time. If you think you can figure me out with your fancy theories and five-dollar jargon, you’re dumber than you sound. But hey, go ahead and try. This should be fun.

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