Page 189 of Craving Venom

She startles and her head whips toward me, her red eyes and blotchy face making it clear she’s been crying for a while.

“Are… are you his friend?”

“Brother,” I correct. “Not that you’d know anything about loyalty.”

Her face crumples, but I don’t give a shit.

“What the fuck are you even doing here? Looking for more ways to destroy what’s left of him? Or just here to gawk at the mess you made?”

“I…” Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first. She wipes at her face, swallowing hard. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” I cut her off. “Didn’t ask him to kill for you? Didn’t watch him rot in here while you lived your fucking life?”

Her eyes drop to the floor, but I don’t let her hide.

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I know enough. I know he loved you. I know he would’ve died for you. You’re a cheap, lying whore who fed him nothing but bullshit. You let him love you. Let him believe he was saving you. Let him throw away his whole fucking life for a girl who couldn’t even look him in the eye when the blood hit the floor.”

Her body stiffens. She tries to hide it, but I see the way her hands tighten around her dress.

“And I know you’re not here because you loved him.” Her eyes flick up, but I don’t stop. “You’re here because guilt’s a bitch and now that he’s gone, you can’t fucking live with yourself.”

Khloe’s head snaps up again. Her tear-streaked face is flushed, but this time it’s not from sorrow.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she spits. “And yeah, maybe I deserved that. Maybe I deserve every word you’re throwing at me. But you don’t know me. Don’t stand there pretending you ever did.”

“I don’t need to know you. Trash smells the same no matter how much perfume you drown it in,” I scoff.

She steps closer, squaring her shoulders, and for the first time, she looks at me with the same fire burning through her veins as mine.

“I’m grateful,” she grits out. “Grateful that someone in hereha..d...his back,” she stumbles, working her mouth faster thanher heart can handle. “But you’re not the only one hurting, so why don’t you go be a dick somewhere else?”

I don’t respond. What’s the fucking point?

She turns away and her hands move to the edge of the bunk. Her fingers brush over the worn fabric of Mark’s old football T-shirt as if it might crumble beneath her touch.

And then she smiles, but there’s no joy in it. It’s sorrow in its rawest form. Her body buckles as the smile contorts and her shoulders shake as the sobs come. They’re not loud or violent, just silent and broken.

She clutches the shirt tighter as tears fall soundlessly, and the weight of everything she tried to bury rises to the surface, dragging her down inch by inch.

And I let her.

I don’t offer comfort. I don’t reach for her.

But I don’t fucking hate her in this moment.

And I sure as hell don’t stay.

I step out and the corridor stretches long and empty. A couple of guards linger near the checkpoint, bored and half-asleep, barely glancing at me as I pass. I keep moving toward the common area, slipping past tables where inmates are either playing cards or plotting their next fuck-up, and head straight for the far wall. None of it really registers, because the second I walk in, my eyes lock on the cracked TV mounted high above, pulling all the air out of the room.

“—the brutal killing of local businessman Derrick Voss has left the community in shock,” the reporter says. “Voss, a known philanthropist and real estate mogul, was found dead in his home last night, the victim of what authorities are calling a ‘targeted assassination.’”

I know that blood.

“Sources close to the investigation suggest Voss’s death may be linked to ongoing criminal activities,” the reportercontinues. “However, no suspects have been named at this time.”

Because I made damn sure there wouldn’t be any.

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