Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 2

2

C onfrontation has never been my strong suit.

If anything, I avoid it like the plague, but the thing I avoid most?

Violence.

I’ve been in too many bad situations where I was overpowered by people so much bigger than me that I couldn’t have possibly taken them.

My mom. The men who visited her. My foster parents.

Dave just now.

All of them used their size to intimidate me, and I’m easily intimidated—a scaredy-cat through and through.

My favorite activities include reading, embroidering, and scribbling in my journal. Hell, even working is fine.

Anything is fine compared to being overpowered by another person.

Right now, however, I’m not the one being intimidated or thrown around.

It’s Dave.

He’s being held by the collar of his stained sleeveless shirt as a man drives his gloved fist into his face.

And it’s not just any man.

It’s the man who’s been following me sporadically for over a month .

My stalker.

And this guy just called me annoying before he went back to pummeling Dave against the wall.

I’m the annoying one.

Me.

The crunching of bones tightens my stomach, raising the bile in my throat. Dave’s blood splashes on his shirt and the wall, and the dots of red look black under the flickering light. Like an ancient curse.

My drunkard neighbor groans and tries to resist, but his uncoordinated movements do nothing to halt or even slow down the stranger’s assault.

I’m transfixed by the view, trembling as I push further into the wall, the solid surface digging into my back as the air assaults my tightened throat.

Violence isn’t anything new to me. I’ve witnessed it in spades and have been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count. But this is the first time I’ve seen anyone being so… calm while they’re beating the shit out of someone.

Laser focused, even.

As if his sole purpose is to dismantle Dave limb from limb.

I can only see the stranger’s back, but even that feels like a disturbance. He’s tall, at least 6’4” or 6’5”. I’m 5’6” and still feel like an ant behind him.

But it’s not only the height.

He’s broad and muscular, as if he’s carved from stone, and his fists strike powerful punches.

I don’t like overly tall or extravagantly big men.

Actually, I stay away from all men by using my invisibility tactic .

It’s simple in my mind—dress shabbily, lower my gaze, don’t speak too much or draw attention.

The formula Mama gave me has worked most of the time.

Not with this man, though.

Because not only has this one been following me, but he’s also beating Dave because of me.

The ridges of his big muscles strain against the leather as he lifts his fist.

Thwack.

He lifts it again.

Thwack.

Blood drips from his glove, forming small pools on the dirty concrete as Dave squeals like a pig being slaughtered.

His fight and his voice wane, but the stranger is still punching and punching and punching.

A rush of apprehension ripples through me with each of his hits. The horrendous sound fills the turbulence in my head with red.

“Stop it,” I say in a small voice, tracing my wrist tattoo. “You’ll kill him.”

The stranger doesn’t pay me any attention. I doubt he even hears me.

I take a hesitant step forward, physically pushing off the wall with my palm because, all this time, I’ve been trying to become one with it.

Logically, I should go home. Leave both monsters to battle it out in the darkness, but I don’t want to be the reason behind someone’s murder.

I tap the stranger’s arm that’s still grabbing Dave by the collar. Blood trickles down, staining the white shirt crimson and coating the black glove in a dark, sticky mess .

“Stop,” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from Dave’s shattered face. It’s unrecognizable—blood, saliva, and snot distorting his features.

“Stop?” the stranger repeats in a low growl that crawls across my skin. His voice is so deep and startling, it makes me flinch.

He speaks like it’s a chore to utter words. As if I’m wasting his time.

“Yeah…you’ll kill him.”

“Why would you care?”

I stare up at him.

Big mistake.

I’ve done everything in my might to avoid eye contact since that usually helps me go unnoticed, but here I am.

Looking at the most soulless eyes I’ve ever seen.

They’re dark brown or black—I’m not sure which—but they’re so utterly lifeless, I feel as if I’m in the presence of death.

But death has never scared me. If anything, the thought of it has comforted me. Whenever I’m kicked or thrown around and so damn tired, I think of death and how it’ll free me from all of this.

This stranger, however, is a gruesome version of death, a dark, ruthless entity who I’m sure would snap my and Dave’s necks without any form of remorse.

And it’ll definitely not be the peaceful type of death I’ve always envisioned in my darkest hours.

It’ll be merciless and bloody.

Staring at his face is akin to looking into a deep lake. Pretty from far away but frightening up close.

He’s the kind of beautiful that feels like a trap—razor-sharp, calculated, and entirely lethal. His features are carved with cruel precision, from the defined cheekbones that cast harsh shadows under the dim light, to the precise cut of his jaw, as if sculpted from ice and tempered by fire.

His straight nose adds an aristocratic edge that speaks of lineage and old money, but there’s nothing refined about the way he looks at me.

Almost as if…I disgust him.

“Answer me,” he repeats when I say nothing. “Why would you care?”

“Why would I care if you kill someone?”

“Yes.” He speaks the lone word with a gruff tone, as if he didn’t want to say anything and was forced to.

“Maybe because that’s wrong?”

“Wrong,” he repeats with an edge.

His dark hair is styled back, slick and perfect, and my gaze is drawn to a few rebellious strands that have slipped free, curling over the thick line of his forehead. They don’t soften him. If anything, they make him look more untamed, like a beast barely contained beneath a shell of restraint.

It’s like I’m in the presence of a brewing storm or a pending disaster. My body is tight due to the awareness that he could erupt or blow up in my face at any second.

Like Mama.

“So, you know what’s fucking wrong?” His lips press into a firm line, betraying no emotion, but his nostrils flare just enough to suggest irritation—almost as if my mere existence offends him.

“What?”

He says nothing, just continues to stare at me.

No. Glare.

There’s a danger in his stillness, a quiet violence simmering beneath the surface. His gaze is dark, unreadable, but it sinks into my skin, a slow, deliberate scrape that peels back layers that I want to remain hidden.

The stranger isn’t just looking—he’s dissecting, calculating, as if deciding whether I’m worth his attention or if he should simply erase me from the world.

I can’t look away, even when every instinct screams at me to run.

And for a moment, he seems familiar. Like a face I’ve previously encountered.

Impossible.

There’s no way I wouldn’t remember someone as striking as he is if I’d met him before.

“If I let him go, will you take his place and be my punching bag?” he asks out of the blue, his eyes tapering to an uncomfortable calm.

“No…of course not.”

He throws Dave aside and he falls against the wall, then stands and stumbles out of the alleyway, muttering something about how the stranger will pay for this.

I can’t focus on him, though, because the stranger is now stepping into my space. His broad frame blocks my vision until he’s all I can see or pay attention to.

The scent of something masculine and heady floods my senses as he towers over me, trapping me in his disturbing presence.

I have to crane my head to look up at him, once again making the eye contact I should avoid at all costs.

“Too late. I already let him go.” He takes a step forward, and I instinctively step back, my beat-up sneakers scraping against the concrete.

“I didn’t agree to that.” I discreetly reach into my back pocket. If I can call 911, if they could hear what’s happening, maybe they’ll send help⁠—

A large hand latches onto my wrist, pulls my arm, then twists. My stomach coils at the view of the bloodstains at the palm of his glove

“What do you think you’re doing, hmm?” The rumble of his voice seeps into my skin.

I try to pull my hand, but he tightens his grip. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm enough to suggest that he’d make it painful if I struggle any further.

Someone like him who seems to escalate frequently in a short period of time is unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous, and in order to survive, I can’t risk provoking him.

So I remain still. “Please let me go.”

He shakes his head once, tsking as he pushes into me. “Don’t beg yet. We’ll get there…eventually.”

My back hits the wall and I jump, my fingers clammy, my teeth grinding together with the force of the fear that slithers down my spine.

I’ve been cornered twice tonight, but what Dave did feels like child’s play compared to this mountain of muscles and rage.

Because I can feel the anger in his touch and the way he looks at me—like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode.

I’m caught right in the eye of a turbulent storm.

“Now.” He tilts his head to the side. “Shouldn’t you thank me?”

“Thank you?”

“Yes.”

“For…stalking me?”

“For saving your life.” I hear a tinge of annoyance, and that shimmering anger grows in intensity, spilling into his words.

I swallow and the gulp that gets caught in my throat can be heard in the oppressive silence. “I didn’t ask you to.”

It’s subtle, but I see his free hand flex, sticky blood still dripping onto the concrete. “If I hadn’t shown up, that pathetic waste of space would’ve violated you. And considering your meek, entirely washed-up, and boring personality, you would’ve let him.”

I would’ve never let him. I was going to hit him.

But I don’t need to explain myself to a literal stalker. Besides, explaining myself has never worked, and it’s only gotten me into worse trouble.

So instead of slipping down that hopeless road, I tilt my head to the side. “What’s it to you?”

He narrows his eyes, a hint of rage flashing through them. “The fuck you just say?”

“Nothing. Just…let me go.”

“No, you said something. Repeat it. Now.”

I let out a fractured exhale, causing my glasses to fog up.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the throbbing pain in my back. Maybe I just want to go home, read my novel, then go to sleep so I can wake up early and study and then go to class.

Maybe I’m just suicidal.

Whatever the reason, I let the words I constantly police spill out in one go. “I said it has nothing to do with you. Whether I’m assaulted or killed or thrown into a dumpster is not your business. And honestly, if you believe me to be boring and washed-up, why not stalk someone else? Or maybe quit the whole despicable ordeal and do something better with your time?”

He remains motionless, probably as surprised by the statement as I am. I didn’t mean to talk back, but I guess I now have no filter when I’m nervous. Add all the physical and mental pain, and I’m ready to just…go.

The stranger’s face slips back into stark indifference, a blank, careful mask I can’t read. “You think I want to follow you around? See your pathetic life in 3D?”

“I’m sure you don’t. So why are you?”

“Why do you think?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

He steps farther into my space, his chest a breath away from mine, his fingers tightening around my wrist. He’s so close, his boots rub against my sneakers, and I’m assaulted by the smell of wood and leather, a potent masculine combination that fills me with apprehension.

I can’t help it.

Having lived in a world where most men use and abuse women, I can only feel dread at the scent.

“Have you done something bad, Violet?”

I gulp. Sure, I thought he’d know my name if he’d put so much effort into watching me, but still, hearing it uttered in his voice causes goosebumps to erupt on my skin.

“No.” The lone word leaves me in a strangled breath.

“Liar.” He has a distinctive way of speaking—precise, deep, but also frighteningly monotone, as if talking is a true hindrance.

“Why would I lie?”

“Because you’re no different than the rest of them. All of you are rotten to the core.”

Who are ‘all of us’?

Before I can ask, he strokes my wrist with his bloodied glove, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It seems sensual, but, in reality, it’s no different than a veiled threat .

Both of us watch as he smears my tattoo with blood.

“Endure,” he reads the word inked there. “Very fitting.”

I try to pull my wrist free, but he tightens his grip. “You’ll need to endure, Violet, for a long time.”

He releases my wrist, and I think the nightmare is over, but then he traces a line on my cheek with the back of his bloodied hand, smearing the sticky mess from the edge of my glasses to the corner of my mouth. “When I’m done with you, there’ll be nothing left.”

My chin trembles, and I want to look away, to escape his black-hole-like orbit, but I don’t.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’ll have to figure that out yourself.” His lips hover near my cheek, and with every word he breathes against the blood, a chill spreads across my skin. “Reflect on your sins.”