Page 94 of Craving Venom

Terry.

The man who took the reckless, angry kid I was and shaped me into something sharper. Stronger. He taught me how to fight, not just to throw punches, but to make every single one count. He taught me how to read a person’s body, how to see the move before they even thought to make it.

He taught me how to win.

Mark tilts his head. “Where is he now?”

I hold his gaze for a second before pushing off the bench.

“Dead.”

I don’t wait for his reaction. I just turn and walk out.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE BEAUTY

Iwake up to the same thing.

No messages. No calls. Nothing.

It’s been a week since I last heard from Zane. A week since he reached out or since I did, if I could even say I wanted to. I glance at my phone, but the screen is as empty as it was yesterday. And the day before that.

I let out a slow breath, dropping the phone onto my nightstand before dragging my gaze downward. My body is barely covered by an oversized t-shirt. That’s all I’ve worn for the past week.

Because wearing anything else hurts.

It burns.

Even the softest fabric feels wrong, scraping over bruises, pressing into them. The hickeys he gave me trail down my neck, spread across my chest, deep enough that I feel every single one when I move. And I fucking hate it, because I should be healing, should be fine by now, but every time I brush my fingers over them, I can still feel his mouth on me.

I shift slightly, and a dull ache flares between my legs. It’s not sharp, not unbearable, just a lingering soreness that shouldn’t still be there.

Just a little sore.

That’s what the gynecologist had said.

Yeah, I had forced myself out of bed the next morning, dragging my aching body to a gynecologist. It had taken everything in me to walk in there, to sit in that sterile, white-ass room, staring at the posters about safe sex and healthy relationships while knowing I had nothing safe or healthy inside me.

But to my surprise? I was fine. Sore, yeah, but fine.

I wanted to laugh.

No tearing. No damage. Just a little sore.

Like I hadn’t had a broken fucking bottle inside me.

Like I hadn’t spent half the night waiting for it to shatter.

She gave me that same nasty look. Three times.Weren’t gynecologists supposed to be open to anything?But I guess even they had a limit. Even they had a threshold for what was considerednormallevels of fucked up.

I didn’t ask any more questions. I just pulled my clothes back on and walked out.

And when I got home, when I peeled the layers off my skin, that’s when I saw how much worse it really was. But you know what’s worse than the bruises? The way I talk to myself. The way my own mind turns on me

You should be over this by now.

I let out a sharp breath. “Over what?”

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