Page 26 of Craving Venom

“Here we go again,” I mutter, grateful for the distraction as she launches into another dramatic rant about how mint chocolate is the only respectable flavor.

But even as we laugh and argue, my body keeps circling back to the feeling that, sooner or later, I’m going to have to take the plunge.

CHAPTER SIX

THE MONSTER

The prison doors open with a metallic groan that’s loud as fuck and grates on my nerves. I step through and the guard behind me is barking some bullshit about keeping my head down.

The intake process is slow and boring as hell. They strip me down, search me, make me shower under some shitty-ass lukewarm water that smells like rust. I stand there, letting it hit me.

The guards are all stiff and uptight, trying to look hard as they bark orders. But I see it in their eyes. The flicker of recognition. They know me. They know who I am. And it scares the shit out of them.

Once I’m shoved into the baggy-ass jumpsuit they give me, they push me straight into the yard. The gate slams shut behind me with a metallic clang that slices through the noise. I step forward, letting the scene sink in.

As I move deeper, the atmosphere curdles. Conversations stall. Words hang unfinished. Heads turn. Every set of eyeslocks onto me, tracking my steps like I’m not a person, but a warning.

I smirk. Let them stare. Let them feel it.

As I keep walking, I catch the murmur of voices threading through the silence.

“That’s him.”

“The kid who—”

“No way.”

“Stay the fuck out of his way.”

It’s almost too easy. I don’t bother looking at anyone, don’t bother acknowledging the stares. Let them talk. Let them wonder. I keep walking like I own the place because, in a way, I do.

“Hey, kid.”

I glance over. The guy calling out to me is sitting on a bench. He’s massive and built like a tank. His muscles look like they’ve been carved out of stone, and his silver blonde hair glints under the sun, sharp against his dark eyes. He looks older, but not old enough to be frail. Just old enough to make me wonder how many skulls he’s cracked open in his lifetime.

“You talking to me?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer. He’s got a presence, I’ll give him that. But I’ve seen worse. Done worse. “You’re new.”

“Thanks for noticing.” I flash him a cocky smile, but he doesn’t react.

“Name’s Terry,” he says, crossing his arms over his massive chest. His biceps are so thick they could probably crush a watermelon.

“Zane.”

“I know.” There’s a glint in his eye that tells me he’s read all the headlines. “You’re famous.”

“Lucky me.”

“You don’t scare easy.”

“Why the fuck would I?”

Terry’s grin widens. “I like you, kid. You’ve got the kind of attitude that gets people killed around here.”

“Good thing I’m impossible to kill.”

The conversation goes on like that. Over the next few weeks, Terry and I fall into some kind of rhythm. He’s always there; he watches, he waits, but he never oversteps.

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