Page 149 of Craving Venom

Let Mark stress about it.

I have other things on my mind.

By the time I scrape the last bite off my plate and rinse my hands, the guards are waiting.

One of them steps forward. “Get up. You need to come with us.”

I don’t even acknowledge him.

Another guard paces impatiently, and when I still don’t comply, they force it anyway. A rough hand grips my shoulder, delivering a sharp shove that doesn’t even reposition me, until I decide to walk myself.

I should be annoyed.

Instead, I’m bored.

Until I see the sign above the door.

Attorney-Client Visitation Room.

The guard swipes his keycard, and as the heavy door buzzes open, I step inside to find Yvette sitting in the chair. It’s been a decade since I’ve seen her, since she stood beside me in court as a fresh-faced first-year associate.

I’ve got to give her props, she still looks exactly the same.

I scoff and drop into the chair across from her, slouching back with my arms stretched lazily over the armrests.

“Goddamn, Yvette. You haven’t aged a day. What’s your secret? Human sacrifice?”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head as she slides a cigarette across the table toward me.

“Good to see you too, Zane.”

Yvette pulls out an expensive Zippo and flicks it open in one smooth motion. I lean forward, letting the flame kiss the end as I inhale slowly, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs before exhaling.

She’s always been impossible to rattle, one of the few people in my life who’s never feared me. Without saying a word, she pulls out her own cigarette, lights it and takes a slow drag.

“You look good.”

“I try. Prison skincare routine is killer.”

She doesn’t laugh this time.

“Your grandfather reached out to me,” she says, exhaling the smoke.

My fingers tighten around the cigarette.

I don’t react outwardly, but inside?

Something punches deep.

He’s the only person in my family who ever treated me like I was worth something. The only person who looked me in the eye and saw me, not my father, not my mother’s ghost, not the ruined fucking thing I became.

“He wants you to fight this.” She slides a manila folder across the table to me. “And he asked me to help.”

“That’s a real shame.” I flick my cigarette toward the ashtray. “Because I don’t give a fuck.”

Yvette doesn’t flinch. She knew I’d say that, but she still tries, spending the next ten minutes laying it all out—the appeal process, the loopholes, and the ways we can still win.

I let her waste her breath because my mind is already made up. There’s still time before my execution, not much, but enough, and I know exactly what it’ll come down to. It won’t be my grandfather’s plea. It won’t be Yvette’s arguments.

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