Page 287 of Craving Venom

Rows of velvet seats curve into a half-circle around a sunken stage, each row elevated to give every man the perfect view. There are maybe twenty men in suits and masks. Each man has a girl sitting beside him.

They’re mostly naked.

Some wear collars. Others are leashed. A few kneel with heads bowed and hands folded, waiting to be called on. One has herface buried in a man’s lap, and the only thing covering her ass is a gold chain.

My lungs don’t work right. I can’t get enough air. The dress clings tighter. My legs want to move, but I don’t know where the fuck to take them.

Zane’s hand moves from my palm to my waist. The mask distorts his voice, making it impossible to place the words clearly, but I feel them.

“Do you want to go home?”

If I were smart, I’d say yes.

But I’m not smart.

“No,” I say. It barely comes out. But it’s enough.

He walks us toward one of the empty chairs at the edge of the half-circle. His fingers never leave my waist. I keep expecting him to let go, but he doesn’t. Even when we stop. Even when he lowers himself into the chair.

I move to kneel beside him. That’s what every girl is doing. I already feel the cold of the marble against my knees when his hand hooks my elbow and pulls me onto his lap.

My legs drape over one side of his thighs, and his arm wraps fully around my waist, holding me there as if daring anyone to look at me too long. I try to sit up straighter, but his hand tightens, dragging me closer.

The curtain drops with a slow mechanical hiss, and the moment it does, every breath I’ve been holding turns to ice.

Corrine is in the center of the stage.

She’s naked, bruised, and propped up in a steel chair. Her arms are strapped down. Her head lolls forward, chin pressed weakly to her chest. IV lines snake out of her veins, running into clear bags steadily filling with her blood. Her skin’s pale and splotched with bruises in shades of violet and sick yellow. Her knees are parted, her chest rising and falling in short gasps.

“Still leaking,” someone mutters behind a mask. “They should’ve chilled her first. Slows the bleeding. Preserves the taste.”

“Ugly little thing,” another says. “I’ll still take a piece if the price is low.”

“Open her eyes, someone. I want to see if she bleeds when she blinks.”

A peanut sails from the left row, it bounces off her shoulder and hits the stage. She doesn’t move, but her body slumps a little further in the chair.

My fingernails dig into Zane’s arm. My stomach turns so violently I almost gag. Zane’s hand tightens around my hip as if he’s trying to find a reason to hold both of us back. His body turns to stone beneath me. I’ve felt him hinged. I’ve seen him amused. I’ve seen him wild with lust and slow with sadism. But this?

I’ve never felt him angry.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until Zane’s hand flattens against my stomach. His fingers spread wide, anchoring me back down.

He doesn’t look at them.

But I do.

They sit like they’re discussing stocks. Not a human being. Not a girl who’s clearly being tortured.

Then the sharp clink of crystal interrupts the murmurs. I draw my attention in front of me to find a masked waiter. He approaches with a tray, his gaze flicking straight to me before he hands Zane a wine glass.

“Master,” he says smoothly, “have your slave expose for the club. It’s in the rules.”

The moment the word slave leaves his mouth, my stomach turns. The word slides down my throat with the weight of rot. I grind my teeth until my skull aches.

Zane’s hand lashes out, snapping around the waiter’s wrist with a grip that makes the bone crack. It’s not just bone that breaks. It’s pride. The wine glass slips from the man’s stunned grip and crashes to the marble, splintering into jagged shards that scatter across the floor. Every head turns. The whole room stills, caught between shock and fear, watching Zane without daring to blink.

“My woman stays right where she is,” he growls, loud enough for every sick fuck in the room to hear. “Because I’m the one making the fucking rules.”

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