Page 89 of Craving Venom

I want to vomit.

Tria doesn’t notice how stiff I am. How my breaths are coming shorter. How my nails are digging so deep into my arms I’m close to breaking skin.

“I was going to go find the girl after, ask her how the fuck she got a man to fuck her like that.” She shakes her head with a laugh. “Whoever she is, she’s one lucky bitch.”

Lucky.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Fine,” Tria huffs. “But we’re talking about this more later.”

I don’t answer. I’m already walking ahead, needing to get out of there before my stomach turns inside out.

I don’t stop moving until I reach my dorm. My fingers fumble as I shove the key into the lock. The door swings open, and my body goes rigid.

My room is spotless. It was a goddamn mess when I left. Now? Everything is in perfect order. The faint scent of something rich and smoky lingers in the air, something distinctly him.

Zane.

I shut the door behind me. How the fuck did he even get in? My eyes flick to the window. The one I always leave slightly open. A stupid habit. One I should break.

But I don’t close it.

He’s not going to walk out of prison again.

Right?

I swallow hard and head toward the bathroom, but a large, neatly wrapped gift on my bed stops me in my tracks.

A bad feeling slithers up my spine.

Slowly, I approach. There’s a note resting on top. I pick it up, unfold it, and skim the words scrawled across the paper.

I don’t even realize I’ve crumpled the note in my fist

until I force myself to let go. I rip off the wrapping, my breath catching the second I see what’s inside.

It’s a portrait of me.

I sink onto the edge of my bed, staring. I was so terrified earlier that it didn’t even register—how the hell did Zane know I was Faith?

But now, looking at this painting, there’s no denying it. He recognized me not because he had seen me before, but because I had existed in the quiet corners of his imagination, until I was no longer just a dream.

My fingers tremble as I run them over the canvas. He painted me. The details are so precise, so hauntingly beautiful, it makesmy throat close up. Every brushstroke, every shade—it’s me. But it’s not just me. It’s how he sees me.

Something gleams in the painting, drawing my attention. It’s a pendant around my neck. My fingers instinctively reach for my own neck. The second I touch cool metal, my stomach drops.

No.

I yank my hand away, looking down. It’s there. The same pendant.

I hadn’t even noticed.

The chain is delicate but strong, the pendant itself is small but undeniably expensive. A hope diamond set in intricate platinum. The kind of jewelry that costs a small fortune. The kind that means something.

My fingers tighten around the pendant, like I could rip it off and throw it across the room. But I don’t.

Because some part of me—the part I want to drown—likes the way it feels against my skin. For a split second, I let myself imagine a different reality. One where this is sweet. Thoughtful. One where I could press my fingers to the pendant and feel warmth instead of dread. If Zane wasn’t in prison. If he wasn’t—

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