Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 14

14

I ’m walking out of my apartment when Mario steps into view.

He came back about a week ago, his arm still wrapped in a sling. I kind of force him to walk with me now and allow me to share my food with him.

He tried to refuse at first, but I can be persistent. Whenever he attempts to keep a distance, I slow down and fall in step beside him. Whenever he refuses the food, I remind him that some people are hungry and he should appreciate the commodity of eating.

I stare at the sullied, gray streets. I used to quicken my steps, my anxiety on high alert, and my heart in my throat.

But that was before I realized there are worse monsters out there. Monsters who dress well, smell divine, and are richer than sin. Monsters who find it fun to mess with someone’s life just because they can.

So I stopped worrying about what’s lurking in the shadows. It also helps that Mario makes me feel safe for some reason. No one would dare come near me when I’m walking beside him, and I think it has to do with his ‘fuck off’ expression that mimics his dear boss’s.

“How are you doing, Mario?” I smile, offering him a mint candy. When he doesn’t take it, I place it in his hand and take one for myself.

“You should’ve stayed home,” he says in a firm voice.

“You heard me talking to Toby the other day. I agreed to go on a date.”

“You shouldn’t have.” He releases an exasperated sigh. “You do know I have to report everything back to him, right?”

“I don’t care.” I suck on the candy harder, fighting the urge to crush it between my teeth. It’s mind-boggling how my calm temperament can be easily ruffled at the mention of that bastard.

God, I hate him.

I truly do. I never thought myself capable of hatred, but I despise Jude Callahan.

First, he stalks me, then he says I can’t die until he permits it, as if I’m some marionette, and then he makes me feel like shit every time I see his face, because I failed to save his mom.

But the biggest reason I hate him is because he gave me a taste of something forbidden and wrong but so damn delicious, I keep having dreams about it. His mouth on my pussy and my reaction to his touch, and I wake up with my hands between my legs.

And I hate that the most because I have a low sex drive and have been happily celibate for a while, not even feeling the need to masturbate that often, so I can’t forgive myself for the reaction I had.

It feels…wrong.

And stupid because the truth is, the man I had that reaction with wants to kill me.

Thankfully, I haven’t seen him since the night he ambushed me in the kitchen.

Two weeks ago .

But even though I don’t see him, I feel his presence in the apartment sometimes. Oh, and he leaves a few bottles of ginger ale in the fridge every night. At first, I thought it was Dahlia, until she mentioned we have so many now. And now, I can’t even have my favorite drink without thinking of his hot tongue all over me.

So it’s not that he’s finally left me alone—he just doesn’t bother to show me his face anymore.

He still wants me to text him the stupid highlights after every Vipers replay I watch, though, or he threatens Mario and Dahlia.

As a result, I’ve been somehow forced into learning the game and can understand the decades-long rivalry between the Vipers and the Wolves.

I’d still cheer for the Wolves. At the end of the day, the Wolves players were born and bred in Stantonville, and they’re like me—they came from nothing and worked hard to play something they love without trust funds buying their coaches and sophisticated training camps.

I don’t think Jude liked those thoughts when I texted them.

Which is why I texted them in the first place.

He’s obviously super popular and a fan favorite, which gives him too big of an ego for my liking, and someone needs to deflate his god complex. I just volunteered for the task.

And yes, maybe I do have more audacity when I’m texting. It’s not like he can intimidate me through the phone.

“You should care,” Mario says in a slightly softened tone. “You already know how violent he can get.”

I lift a shoulder. “If he wants to kill me, he should do it already.”

“The more you want that, the more he won’t comply. ”

“I know that.”

“Apparently not, because you’re provoking a reaction with this date, Violet. Whether or not it’s on purpose.”

I stop and face him. “So I should… what ? Stop living? Wait for his majesty to issue the death sentence? I just want to have something outside of school and work and constant overthinking and anxiety about what type of unpredictable action he’ll take next. Is that wrong?”

“No. But I’m not sure if you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

“I shouldn’t want a boyfriend?” I scoff. “Would you tell him the same?”

Mario frowns. “Jude’s never had a girlfriend.”

“Is that a joke?”

“I don’t joke. He doesn’t even have sex that often either. Don’t believe the rumors you read online.”

I can feel heat creeping up my neck because he’s referring to that one time he caught me reading some social media posts about the Vipers.

And yes, there were girls gloating about sleeping with the Vipers’ players, including Jude, which for some reason made my day worse.

“I don’t care what he does with his private life,” I whisper.

“Again, you should now that you’re part of it.”

“I’m not. I just want him to leave me alone.”

“I’m telling you this as someone who’s known him since he was born. He’s not the type to be forced into doing anything by anyone. There’s nothing you can do that will make him give up. That will only happen once he loses interest.”

“You’ve…known him since he was born?”

“Yes. My mother is the Callahan family’s chief of staff.”

Oh .

My steps slow, and I watch Mario under the half-broken lamps. “Have you always stalked for him?”

“No. I’m a bodyguard, actually.” He sounds offended. “Special Forces trained.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah. It’s Jude’s.” I grin but clear my throat when he doesn’t show a reaction. “How was he when he was young?”

“Quiet, withdrawn, and prone to bursts of violence.”

“So just like he is now?”

“Pretty much.”

“Was he close to his mom?”

“Yes and no.”

“What…does that mean?”

Mario says nothing, signaling that the conversation has ended, and the rest of the long walk is spent in silence.

Once we reach the place in which I’m meeting my date, Mario retreats to the shadows.

The restaurant is one of those trendy, dimly lit places—low-hanging bulbs, sleek black tables, and the scent of rosemary and charred steak clinging to the air.

Soft jazz hums through invisible speakers, blending with the murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of wineglasses. The walls are lined with bottles of expensive liquor, polished to a shine, reflecting the golden glow of candlelight.

It’s warm, inviting, just like my date Toby, who waves me over from a table near the window, grinning wide.

I slide my glasses up my nose, touch my wrist tattoo, then walk up to him.

I’m self-conscious when I remove my denim jacket, revealing the blue satin camisole Dahlia lent me. It stops right at the waist of my pants, its spaghetti straps barely holding it in place, and the lace at the collar doesn’t do a great job of hiding my cleavage.

I don’t do dates that much, mainly because I don’t have the time or energy, but Toby is nice, and he’s often helped me with school material.

He asked before if we should meet up for a movie or dinner sometime, but I brushed him off. A few days ago, however, I was annoyed, so when he asked again as we were leaving a summer class, I said yes without overthinking.

Toby is 6’ tall with curly blond hair and soft features. He also wears glasses, though his are gold-rimmed, and he’s dressed in a button-up shirt and smart casual slacks.

Today, his hair looks shiny, his hazel eyes brighter than usual as he swipes a look over me, pausing at my breasts before focusing on my face.

“I’m glad you made it, Vee. I ordered some wine. Would you like some?” Even his voice sounds mellow, welcoming, nothing like the gruff grumbles of a certain someone⁠—

No.

This isn’t about him in any shape or form.

I smile at Toby and think about ordering ginger ale, but then just go for wine as well so as not to seem rude.

As we wait for food, Toby slides both elbows on the table, leaning his chin on his interlaced fingers. “God. You look stunning.”

“Um. Thanks.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You look great yourself.”

It’s just words. Empty words. On paper, someone like Toby is my type. Softer-spoken, smart as hell, and just…not threatening, whether in looks, voice, or personality.

On paper , that is.

“You always wear those hoodies, but I knew you were beautiful beneath it all.” He grins. “So, tell me more about yourself. I don’t feel like I know you that well.”

I take a sip of my wine. “What do you want to know?”

“Like what do you do for fun?”

“Reading, watching movies, or going out for walks with my sister. I’m not that adventurous. What about you?”

“I love skiing and hockey.”

Yikes. I force a smile. “That’s cool.”

We talk about mundane things during dinner, and I have to take a break and go to the bathroom because I’m losing interest.

And I don’t want to lose interest, because I plan to have sex with Toby, or do oral or something. I need to prove to myself that I’m not sick for coming all over my stalker/potential killer’s mouth and that I would’ve reacted that way with any other man.

I glare at my reflection in the mirror, at the makeup and hair I let Dahlia do—brown eyeshadow, pink lipstick, and soft waves.

I even made an effort today, wearing a camisole that only reminds me of Mama being fucked while she sniffed cocaine. Because, at some point, she couldn’t have sex without drugs coursing through her veins. I hate these sexy lingerie-looking things. They make me anxious and scared, as if I’m trapped in that closet with trembling hands over my ears.

It makes me think of my foster mother accusing me of dressing like a whore and tempting my stepfather. When I was eleven.

Really, took me a lot of effort to step out of my comfort zone tonight. My thoughts need to focus and stop drifting elsewhere—to black-inked forearms, cold brown eyes, and a gruff voice that wraps around my spine like barbed wire .

After skimming my fingers on my wrist a few more times, I’m about to leave the bathroom.

The door bursts open and a tall figure appears.

My heart lunges, and my lips part as Jude walks in.

No, he walks me back.

His hard chest slams against mine, and he’s still striding in. I have no choice but to step back or he’ll topple me over.

His gaze is dark, so dark under the ambient red restroom light, and my hands shake around the strap of my bag.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a low tone as the door slams shut, locking me in with my worst nightmare.

“The question is, what are you doing here, Violet?” The rough timbre of his words steals my breath, my thoughts, my sanity.

Jude’s deep voice, like all men with similar voices, puts me on edge. But his does something more. Something I refuse to acknowledge, no matter how violent the war in my stomach gets or how many goosebumps erupt on my skin.

I jump when my back hits the wall, and he looms over me like a threat, or maybe a curse—I’m not even sure anymore. But I’m once again hit by how tall and massive he is. He truly is the tallest man I’ve ever seen.

The most dangerous, too.

Jude lifts the spaghetti strap of my camisole with his index finger, and even though the contact with my skin is brief, I catch fire. And just like that, inappropriate images of these same lean fingers someplace else rush through me like an aphrodisiac.

“It seems you have the very wrong idea about how this works.” He lifts the strap again, and the fabric rubs against my nipples, making them hard, or maybe it’s his body against mine. “Just because I lengthened the leash doesn’t mean you get to roam around as you please. ”

“I’m not a dog.”

“You’re whatever the fuck I want you to be.” He places his arm above the top of my head and leans down, his brown eyes like orbs of violent intent. “Your life is mine, remember?”

“Then stop the empty threats and take it.”

“I told you that won’t be happening. At least, not yet.”

“Then leave me alone! Whether I date or fuck or work or breathe has nothing to do with you.”

I thought he was intense a moment ago, but now his face looks taut, and his hand lands on my shoulder as the strap falls to my arm. “Did you just say fuck?”

I gulp. His voice sounds so low, it tightens my stomach with that uncomfortable feeling again.

“Answer me. Did you wear makeup and this thing— ” He tightens his grip on the strap. “—to seduce the four-eyed asshole so he’d fuck you?”

“So what if I did? I told you that’s none of⁠—”

His knee slides between my legs, pressing up against my core that’s been aching since he showed up. I grab onto the wall with both hands, my bag slipping down to the floor, its contents clanking on the tiles.

“Do you believe that little fucker would give you what you want? What you need?” His lips hover so close to mine, if I just tilt forward⁠—

No. What the hell am I thinking?

“He might not be filthy rich or a popular athlete, but at least he’s not a murderous stalker,” I say with a miniscule bravado. “He also happens to be my type.”

He doesn’t like that last bit, not even a little, because he’s increasing the pressure against my core, and I’m spiraling.

Because should it feel so damn good?

“Your type, huh? ”

“Yeah. I prefer nerdy, normal guys.”

“You’ll prefer whoever the fuck I tell you to.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Fuck how it works.” He moves his hand to my nape and fists my hair, forcing my head back as he slides his knee back and forth, back and forth.

The friction is maddening, pulling at the same strings from the other night. Dark pleasure I don’t want to give in to mounts and mounts until I’m delirious.

“You’ll do as you’re told.” The low growl of his voice makes me shudder.

I glare at him. “Get a pet for that.”

“I have you, so why bother?”

“Just get out of my life, Jude! You don’t get to invade my space, then disappear and reappear as you wish. Just let me fucking be!”

“We’re making progress if I’m disturbing you to the point that you’re yelling.” He rubs his knee against my pants and I purse my lips, fighting, trying my best not to succumb to these strange feelings.

I know he can feel how hot I am, even though clothes separate our skin.

And I don’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing me like this.

But as the pressure mounts, my hips jerk uncontrollably, stirring a type of abandon I didn’t know sex offered.

My feelings and perception of sex are skewed. Maybe because I witnessed it my whole childhood in a negative light, where men used a woman, not caring how she felt. Or because it was transactional. Or because the men I’ve had sex with have never made me feel worshiped.

But, at any rate, my first real pleasure was on that kitchen counter, and my body’s felt awakened ever since, thirsting for…more.

After that time, darker fantasies I used to repress invaded my dreams and in all of them, there were these dark-brown eyes. I wanted to write about them so bad, but knowing Jude would find my most embarrassing thoughts and moments, I just kept them in my subconscious.

My dreams.

But it doesn’t help when he corners me—it triggers those illicit fantasies.

The need for something.

Anything.

Jude lowers his mouth so that his hot breaths skim my ear. “Here’s how it’ll go, Violet. You go back to your sorry excuse for a date, thank him for his time, and fuck off home.”

“You don’t tell me what to do,” I snap.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do as you’re told. Don’t make me intervene.”

And then he pulls away, releasing me completely and vanishing as silently as he appeared.

I slide down to the floor, my knees shaking and my heart nearly lunging into my throat, and my pussy still throbs with an unsatisfied ache.

My limbs barely hold me, but I stand up with a renewed sense of rebellion.

I was losing interest in Toby earlier, but I’ve found it now.

Screw Jude Callahan.

On a cactus.

Until he bleeds out.

Amen.