Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 3

3

“ M orning, Vi!”

I flinch when slim arms hug me from behind, nearly making me spill the soup in the saucepan.

Masking my nervousness, I turn to face my sister, who’s grinning wide.

Dahlia is about a year younger than me, and even though we’re not related by blood—we met in my last foster home—she’s the only family I have.

She’s curvier than me, with golden olive-toned skin, long, wavy brown hair, and the kind of bold presence that makes people stay away. But it’s her eyes that always strike me the most. Big, expressive hazel, sharp and bold, like they’ve seen more than they should and somehow refused to shatter.

Her smile drops. “What’s up with the dark circles? You worked too late and barely got any sleep again, didn’t you?”

“It’s nothing.” I pour the soup into a container and put on my practiced smile. “You know how it is at the bar.”

“Yeah, not sure the tips are worth it. They’re obviously exploiting you. How many hours did you even sleep?”

Three.

Despite the exhaustion, I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept tossing and turning in bed, my mind filled with that stalker and his threats.

“Reflect on your sins ,” he said.

What sins?

The only person I’ve committed a sin against is dead.

So why…?

I kept thinking about it all night, searching for the possible reasons he’d say something like that, but I still came up empty.

Since I couldn’t fall asleep, I scribbled in my journal and sketched a few things, and then I was able to drift off, but my sleep was riddled with nightmares of dark eyes and a bloodied gloved hand squeezing my throat to death.

I woke up both terrorized and…disappointed.

It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt of death, and I’m always left with this niggling sadness at the realization that it’s not real.

That I didn’t die like I should’ve.

“I slept enough,” I answer Dahlia, who’s still watching me with a slight frown. “Look, I made you soup and a few sandwiches so you won’t eat junk food.”

“It’s not that I want to eat junk food. I don’t have time and can’t cook to save my life, remember?” She smiles sheepishly, opening the cabinet. “Cooking is overrated anyway.”

I laugh and fix the collar of her jacket. It’s leather.

My fingers twitch.

Why did it have to be leather?

I let her go, and she retrieves an instant coffee packet.

“Eat something. Don’t just drink coffee first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t have time. I’ll be late for work.”

“You’re a med student, Dahl. You should be mindful of what you eat.” I place a wrapped sandwich in front of her. “Here. Eat it on your way.”

She side-hugs me, squeezing me tightly. “You’re truly the best ever.”

I hug her back, her warmth and carefree energy offering me a much-needed reprieve. Dahlia is nothing like me.

She’s a firecracker through and through.

Several weeks ago, she caught Dave trying to harass me, and she pointed a gun at him. No kidding. It wasn’t hers or loaded, but she still used it to scare him off.

She’s always been like this, not hesitating to speak up, shout, and destroy anyone who comes at her or me. I’ve always been in awe of how she couldn’t care less about confrontation or how social anxiety is scared of her.

Dahlia and I met when she was twelve, at a foster home where the parents used us for cash flow and repeatedly hit us—Dahlia more than me because she talked back.

As for me…well, I had a different encounter with the ‘dad,’ another man who only ever wanted my shell of a body.

We ran away and have kind of survived together ever since, leaning on each other, being the home we both didn’t have.

I’ve never told her this, because she’d freak out, but if Dahlia weren’t in my life, if I didn’t have a self-imposed purpose to take care of her and make sure she thrives and reaches her goals, I would’ve killed myself a long time ago.

I would’ve stopped floating with nothing but pain tethering me to life.

She’s my lifeline. Literally.

“Vi, honest, I mean it. You need to ask the manager for fewer shifts. You look out of it lately.” She takes a sip of her coffee as she grabs some books she left on the kitchen table, where she usually studies .

We live in a run-down one-bedroom apartment that we moved into recently, after the guy who used to rent us his attic tried to drug us with his homemade wine. It’s a couple of streets away from our previous place, and we were lucky to find it after the old man who lived here died and his son rented it out to us for a bargain. It’s way better equipped than the attic and we pay almost the same rent.

Honestly, both Dahlia and I think we’ve hit the jackpot. It even has a balcony, can you believe it? I’ve never lived anywhere with a balcony, so these past few weeks have felt surreal.

I usually sleep in the living room, having insisted Dahlia take the other room so she can focus on her studies. She wanted us to share it, but it’s small and I don’t want to disturb her healthy sleeping schedule with my erratic, nightmare-filled one.

“I’m actually earning a bit more from my job now that I’m working extra shifts in the summer.” She shoves the books into a tote bag. “I’ll help out more.”

“Spend that money on your studies or your expenses. I’m truly fine, Dahl.”

She throws the bag over her shoulder and frowns. “No, you’re not. You’re just saying that so I won’t worry. Your back pain is flaring up again. Don’t think I didn’t notice the heat patches you’re using on the regular now.”

“It’s a chronic injury. It’s bound to flare.” I hand her the sandwich she left on the counter. “You’ll be late.”

She kisses my cheek. “I’m totally helping out more. See ya!”

And then she’s off before I can reply.

Since she said she’ll help out, I can’t stop her. I guess I’ll buy her some necessities in return. Starting with a new pair of her favorite white sneakers—her old ones are so beat up, they look gray .

Maybe I’ll design and embroider her a medical-themed patch for one of her bags.

My classes start late today, so I spend an hour or so sketching some ideas in my journal while making food for Dahlia for the rest of the week. I haven’t eaten anything since last night, but I’m used to this constant sense of starvation. I consider it intermittent fasting—apparently, it’s good for you.

I would definitely rather Dahlia eat than me. Seeing her well-fed, well-dressed, and crushing it at school brings me joy and a sense of accomplishment of sorts.

I’m apprehensive as I leave the apartment, even though I’m dressed in my signature hoodie and jeans. My strawberry-blonde hair that reaches just below my shoulder blades is gathered in a bun and hidden by the hood.

I’m also wearing my thick-framed glasses and carrying one of Dahlia’s tote bags.

Although it’s daytime, I can’t help glancing around corners, expecting the stranger to appear out of nowhere.

He doesn’t usually, not during the day, but I’m panicking a bit about his threat.

I contemplated telling Dahlia about the whole thing earlier but decided against it. I didn’t in the past, because I refused to put her in danger, and I wouldn’t now, because knowing her, she’d definitely confront him, and I’d never survive if he were to beat her to a pulp like he did Dave.

Or maybe even kill her.

No. Dahlia can’t know about this.

Thankfully, the stalker isn’t around, and I spend an uneventful day in class, going through the motions until I have to leave for work.

My shift starts in the early afternoon today, and I still release a breath when I don’t see his motorcycle or large frame close to HAVEN.

The need to constantly be alert is starting to take a toll on me. I don’t know how long I can survive looking over my shoulder, giving myself a pep talk every time I go to work or even step foot out of the apartment.

I’m organizing the bar when Laura comes over squealing.

I plaster a smile. “Good news?”

“The best!” She shows me two hockey tickets. “Boss gave us these for the Wolves’ first game next season. He can be so sweet when he’s not getting on my last nerve.”

“Nice. Who are you taking?”

“Um, you! Boss said it’s one ticket each.”

I line up the glasses on the shelves. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Girl, spill.”

I lean over and whisper, “I don’t really like hockey.”

“The blasphemy! We live in Wolves territory, where hockey is huge.”

“I know, I know. How dare I?”

“Uh-huh. We need to have you checked and consult the priest for an exorcism and shit.”

I laugh. “How about you take little Karly instead? She’d enjoy it much more than I would.”

Her eyes round. “Oh my God, are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Don’t waste a ticket on me.”

“This will be her first live game. Oh my God, she’ll love it!” She hugs me. “You don’t know how much this means to me, truly, Vi. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, really.”

She hugs me again and scurries away, calling her daughter to tell her the news. I love how she squeals, nearly jumping in place at hearing Karly’s reactions.

A while later, patrons start filtering in and the manager puts on another replay of a hockey game. He sometimes rotates other sports, but, really, he and the owner are hockey fanatics, so they always play it on at least one TV, even during the offseason. During the season, however? That’s pretty much all that’s shown.

This one is apparently the Wolves’ fiercest game from last season against their archnemesis, according to one of the regulars.

I’m working at the bar, helping out the bartender, as the two guys sitting on the stools whistle at something happening on TV. I don’t even pay attention to the game, mostly thinking about whether the stalker will show up again tonight and what I can do if he does.

The bar gets packed fast, the crowd smelling like beer, sweat, and cheap aftershave. The game plays on a few screens, the flicker of harsh arena lights casting a bluish tint over the faces of the regulars. Their voices rise and fall in drunken excitement, spouting curses and half-slurred commentary between gulps of beer.

I wipe the counter absentmindedly, my rag catching on a deep scratch in the wood, one of many scars from years of slamming glasses and flying fists. Their voices push their way in, seeping into the cracks of my mind like smoke.

A glass thuds against the counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, spilling beer where I just wiped. “Jesus Christ, Callahan’s at it again.”

“Cheap shot on the back-check?” another guy grunts.

“Nah, worse. Laid that poor bastard out with a reverse hit. Kid never saw it coming. ”

“That’s Callahan for you,” another man mutters, shaking his head. “Most violent bastard in the league aside from our own Osborn.”

My ears perk up at Marcus Osborn’s name. He’s one of Dahlia’s useless exes, and I’m glad she only stayed with him for two weeks before realizing he’s a can of worms she shouldn’t go near.

I’ve always wished I could be as assertive as Dahlia in the way she treats men. She loves danger and having fun, but she also doesn’t hesitate to throw them away the moment she gets bored. Which is what she did to Marcus.

He’s still a hockey god in this town, and even someone like me knows he’s the Wolves’ captain and Stantonville’s pride. So to hear one of the regulars compare someone else to him in the form of praise is rare.

I glance up just as the instant replay rolls. The Callahan everyone’s talking about plays for the Vipers, the team from the neighboring affluent town, Graystone Ridge.

No way.

My fingers clench around the rag as he stands there, his large physique and the glare I’ve had nightmares about on full display.

The replay shows him skating at supersonic speed, but he doesn’t chase the puck—he’s tailing the other player like a predator timing his strike. The other team’s forward barely turns his head before Callahan plants his skates, shifts his weight, and slams into him with the force of a car crash. The guy crumples, chest first, against the boards, his stick clattering to the ice.

A collective wince ripples through everyone watching the game.

I can’t stop staring at the screen, held captive by the scene as my heartbeat thuds against my rib cage .

Callahan—Jude, judging by the banner that appears on the screen—isn’t celebrating or even looking back at the wreckage he left behind. He just skates away, his jaw tight, his eyes empty under the harsh lights of the rink.

The same dark eyes that peered into my soul last night and filled my nightmares.

My stalker has a name and it’s Jude Callahan.

But that’s not what sends bile up my throat, forcing me to rush to the toilet, my eyes watering, my knees shaking, and vomit filling my mouth.

He…couldn’t have been related to Susie Callahan, right?

The woman who was killed right before my eyes, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.