Page 171 of Craving Venom

I open my mouth to scream, but his hand clamps over it fast.

His fingers are warm and calloused, rough from fights and whatever else he’s been through. I thrash my head to the side, trying to break free and force him to leave.

But he doesn’t move.

He isn’t holding me down, but he’s not letting me up either. My eyes dart around the room as I remember the last time he was here, snakes were slithering beneath my sheets.

I whip my head toward the floor.

He follows my line of sight. His mouth twitches into a smile.

Fingers brush lightly against my jaw, guiding my face back toward him. “There are no snakes. Stop looking.”

My body stiffens, and he lets the moment hang. My breath flares through my nose as I try to speak, but it comes out as muffled nonsense against his hand.

“I’m going to let you go.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, playing at being a lover instead of whatever the fuck we really are. “But you don’t scream. You’ll do that for me, yeah?”

I dip my head as his fingers slide away from my mouth, leaving behind a heat that feels more like a burn than a simple touch.

He pulls back and doesn’t touch me again. He rises, crosses the room in two silent strides, and settles against the windowsill. The moonlight kisses one side of his face and leaves the other in shadow. It makes him look unhinged.

I push up on my hands and sit all the way up, dragging the covers with me and tucking my knees beneath my ass. My tank top shifts again, and I yank it higher over my tits before glancing at the window.

“How the fuck did you get in?” I ask, squinting toward the glass.

Zane lifts a hand, barely bothering to point at my door. My mouth falls open, but not because I believe him. That door was locked. I remember checking it. I always check it. He’s lying. I don’t know how he got inside, the window, maybe, or something worse but I know he’s lying, and he’s daring me to call him out.

The silence stretches so long it folds in on itself. The way he’s just standing there bothers me more than his usual threats. He’s not smirking. Not prowling. His eyes aren’t hungry, they’re hollow.

I glance at him again.

Something’s off.

He looks different.

“Are you sick?”

No reaction.

“Did you fall down a flight of stairs and forget who you are?”

God, he’s doing thatquietthing.

It’s somehow worse than him dragging a bottle across my thigh or threatening to fuck me with broken glass. At least then I knew what version of him I was dealing with.

I snap. “Jesus, Zane, can you say something before I throw a pillow at your face.”

His gaze finally lifts and locks onto me, studying me the way someone looks at something they’re not sure they can trust.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re tired.” He runs a hand down his face. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay, wow,” I mutter, shifting forward and jabbing a finger toward him, “you don’t break into someone’s room, cover their mouth, point at their unlocked door like a passive-aggressive ghost, and then tell them to go back to sleep like you didn’t just completely fuck up their entire night.”

His brow raises by a centimeter.

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