Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 37

37

“ T his is going to backfire.”

I dismount from my bike, ignoring Kane’s words. The last thing I need is his nagging, and the fact that I don’t have Preston to tell him off on my behalf intensifies the burn beneath my skin.

“Are you suggesting we don’t do this?” I flip my gaze toward him. “If you want out, all you have to do is leave. I have Lucia on standby to clean up the scene anyway.”

“Like fuck I will.” He cracks his knuckles. “I’m just stating the simple fact that even though Marguerite was dropped by the Armstrongs, Winston, Lawrence, and especially Atlas will take issue with us touching their own.”

“You’re currently the head of your family and, therefore, can hold your own. I also talked to Regis and made him agree to take care of the fallout if anything goes south.”

A gust of air ruffles Kane’s hair as he lifts both brows. “You talk to your old man now?”

I tighten my jaw because it’s true. I don’t want to talk to that man, let alone ask for his help in anything.

“You know how he’s always in my business. I just decided to use him for protection.”

“Hmm. ”

I ignore Kane’s knowing hum and the look he gives me, focusing on our surroundings.

The neighborhood is quiet, the streetlights casting a weak, flickering glow over the pavement, stretching long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawns and pristine sidewalks.

Marguerite’s escape house sits proudly in New York’s suburbs, a place that’s meant to feel safe and untouchable—the American dream wrapped in white picket fences and security alarms.

But tonight, it’s just another hunting ground.

The air is thick with the smell of damp asphalt, the pavement still slick from an earlier drizzle. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, but no lights turn on, and no curtains shift.

As if no one cares to look.

Kane and I stake out Marguerite Armstrong’s house from across the street. The windows are dark, the curtains drawn tight, but she’s in there.

We both know it.

I had Lucia disable her security system as well as the surrounding houses’ security cameras.

“How do you want to do this?” Kane asks. “Offing an old woman is different from slicing up her goons.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that. She should’ve considered her age when she attempted to kill Violet multiple times and actually murdered Pres.”

“Fair.” Kane lifts a shoulder. “Who do you think took out the gunman who shot Preston? Lawrence?”

I frown. Ever since the reading of Preston’s will a couple of days ago, Kane and I have hunted down the men who worked for Marguerite with the help of Lucia and Kane’s expanding intel .

Since we knew they were connected to Marguerite, we managed to locate them in record time.

We only found two of them.

The third, the actual gunman who was on the motorcycle and was the one that killed Preston, was already dead.

And it wasn’t a normal death.

We found him in a barren field, crucified to a tree near a hideout. His face was carved out, and his features were unrecognizable.

He had some unintelligible bloody letters etched on his chest and some candy scattered all over him.

“Lawrence would’ve just erased him from existence. That was too theatrical for him or anyone in the Armstrong family,” I say.

“True. Hmm. It’s not Vencor’s modus operandi either, considering its attention-seeking nature and the absence of the cleanup process.”

“Or maybe it was a form of mourning.” I let out a breath. “Different people deal with grief in different ways.”

Our way is definitely slashing people the fuck up.

After Violet falls asleep curled in my arms each night, I cover her up and go out to seek vengeance.

First, my vengeance-seeking avalanche was for my mom. Now, it’s for Violet and Preston.

Seems I can’t live without the constant need to maim people.

“How is Violet?” Kane asks.

I run a hand over my face. “She’s struggling.”

“Obviously. She had too many bombs dropped on her the other day.”

“Yeah, but she’ll eventually accept it.” I clench my gloved hands, watching Marguerite’s windows. “Winston wants to add her name to the Armstrong family registry. Lawrence and Atlas agree.”

“But she doesn’t?”

“I don’t think so. She told Dahlia the other day that she misses their simple life in the slums.” Away from me.

From whatever the fuck we have.

My jaw tightens until I’m sure I’ll dislocate it.

I don’t give a fuck what she thinks. She’s staying right next to me.

“Yeah, that’s not good.” Kane releases a sigh. “Maybe you should make her feel safer in her current environment instead of going on these killing sprees?”

“I’ll get to that after Marguerite’s dead.”

“All right, then. Let’s get this over with.”

He walks toward the house, his movements calm and deliberate, the streetlight catching on the engraving of his signet ring as he flexes his fingers.

I roll my tense shoulders as I step onto the pavement, the cold seeping into my skin through the leather of my jacket.

We manage to open the door using the code Lucia gave us, and then we walk into the darkness, our steps silent, like the prime hunters we were raised to be.

Kane is covering my back as I go up the stairs, two steps at a time, then stop when we see dim light coming from the last bedroom to the right.

Someone else is here.

We share a look, then move in that direction.

A distinctive noise reaches our ears first.

The wet, rhythmic sound of a blade sinking into flesh.

It grows louder by the second.

Slash.

Slash .

Slash.

The gurgle of blood echoes in the air as I bang the door open, pointing my gun ahead.

The scent of thick, metallic blood is the first thing that hits me. It clings to the air, coats the walls, and seeps into the floorboards.

Someone beat us to Marguerite and is currently straddling her on the huge bed.

His shoulders hunch and straighten with each brutal thrust of the knife, the blade flashing before disappearing again, buried deep in what was once Marguerite Armstrong.

Her face is disfigured, and her once blonde hair is soaked in red.

It’s everywhere.

The blood.

The bed, the sheets, the floor, and even on the man who’s performing what looks like a creepy stabbing ritual, completely controlled and unbothered.

Through the bloody haze, Kane and I see him clearly.

Marcus.

The man who’s turned Marguerite into a canvas of slaughter.

He doesn’t stop stabbing her.

Not when we enter, not when the door groans under Kane’s push. Almost as if he’s disconnected from reality.

“The fuck are you doing here?” I growl, pure rage rippling into my tone because he took away my revenge.

For Violet.

For Preston.

This motherfucker confiscated my last string of vengeance.

Marcus’s head jerks up as if pulled from a trance, and for a split second, his expression is full of pure, raw bloodlust. His eyes are wide, dilated, a feverish glow sparking behind them, something wild and feral.

He looks no different than an animal after a kill. His mouth is slightly parted, breaths coming in uneven gasps.

His entire body is drenched in red.

It drips down his arms, is smeared across his face in rivulets, and his clothes are soaked through.

The blade gleams, slick and wet, his fingers gripping it so tight, the tendons in his wrist stand out, stark against the carnage staining his skin.

Then slowly—too slowly—he tilts his head, a grin cutting across his bloody face, marring his teeth in red. “Took you long enough. I got a little…impatient.”

His voice is hoarse, low, like he’s been whispering to himself between every stab.

The body beneath him is barely recognizable, a ruin of torn flesh and shattered bone, her chest a hollowed-out mess of rage and violence.

“Get the fuck out of here, Osborn.” Kane steps in front of me.

“Bring cleaners? Of course you did.” Marcus chuckles as he stumbles off the bed and loses his footing. “I’ll leave it to you, rich kids.”

I grab him by the collar. “You think you can ruin my fucking revenge and then leave?”

“That’s the plan, Callahan.” He’s speaking, but his gaze is lost somewhere I can’t see.

I breathe harshly. “I should maim you instead.”

Kane pulls me away. “Let him go.”

“But this motherfucker⁠—”

Kane shakes his head. “Pres wouldn’t like it. ”

I think I imagine it, but Marcus flinches when Kane says Preston’s name.

I didn’t know the bastard could flinch.

As I release him, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a candy, and throws it into his mouth as he walks out, swaying as if he’s drunk, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

“Why the fuck did you stop me, Kane?” I snap when he’s gone. “And what’s with Pres not liking it? He hated that motherfucker more than I did.”

“Maybe, but it was complicated.” Kane grabs one of the bloody candy wrappers that Marguerite’s body is surrounded with. “He killed her and the gunman because they took Preston from him. He made it personal. Too personal, actually. We all know, aside from dealing with his family, Marcus never makes anything personal. And you know what?”

“What?”

Kane smiles sadly, knowingly. “If the roles were reversed, I believe Pres would’ve done the same.”

When I walk into Violet’s place, it’s still.

Too still.

And I know part of it is because of the fucking emptiness gnawing at my insides.

I can’t get past the fact that Marguerite is gone, and so is my revenge.

And now, I have to crash back into the reality of grief.

Of accepting that my best fucking friend is gone, and no amount of killing can resurrect him.

Kane suggested we go for a late-night skate after we left Lucia and her men to deal with the mess Marcus created. I could tell he wanted to go back to Dahlia, but he offered that just to rein me in.

To ground me.

He’s worried about losing me to bloodlust.

However, I don’t even know how the fuck I’ll be able to play hockey without Preston around. I missed the last two games because I just couldn’t do it without him there. He’s the one who encouraged me when we were young and said he’d join because I loved it so much.

“Do you even like hockey?” I asked.

He grins, looking comical with his missing tooth. “Nah, but I can learn to! I’ll keep you company, that’s what bros are for.”

But he bailed out too soon, and now, I don’t even want to touch a stick. The whole game seems revolting without him.

And, really, I don’t want to practice—I just want Violet in my arms.

I need to ensure she’s doing well mentally. I don’t like how she’s been distracted lately or that she looks horrified whenever one of her ‘new’ family members gets in touch.

Knowing the Armstrongs, they’ll force her into their midst whether she likes it or not, but I’ll make sure no one makes her do anything she’s uncomfortable with.

Even if I have to become best friends with my father for it.

I’d do anything to guarantee they don’t destroy her like they did Preston.

Deep inside, I know Violet wants to belong to a family, but I’m sure she doesn’t want it to be one of our families.

Which is fair, to be honest. I wouldn’t wish this life on my worst enemy, let alone someone as pure and kind as Violet.

The bedroom door is ajar, and I frown.

She doesn’t usually leave it open .

My chest falls when I walk in and I don’t see her curled on her side in bed.

It’s three in the fucking morning. I left her asleep around ten.

“Violet?” I call, walking to the bathroom, but she’s not there.

My fist clenches as I go back to the bedroom and pause. It smells of her, but the mattress is cold.

My gaze flits to a folded piece of paper on the nightstand.

Dread gnaws at my insides as I grab it, and I have to sit down as I read.

Jude,

I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye in person.

You wouldn’t have let me go if I had.

I know you go out at night to kill the people who hurt me and Preston. You come back after showering, but I can still smell the blood when you wrap your arms around me to sleep.

And I can’t help thinking that you’re killing because of me, going on sprees to protect or avenge me. But that’s a weight I can’t carry. I just can’t.

I know how much you suffered because of your mom, and I don’t want to become another version of her. I don’t think I could survive that. Just knowing I’m the reason for someone else’s pain makes me feel hollow.

From the beginning, I should’ve known we were from different worlds. Yours is full of shadows. Mine is trying to find the light.

Being the illegitimate child of the Armstrongs means nothing to me. Blood doesn’t make someone family.

Preston was the closest thing I had to a biological family member, but he’s gone. I can never take his place in that family, and I don’t want to try.

Don’t worry. I won’t kill myself or hurt Dahlia irreversibly. Like you said, I’ll live for Mario and Preston and for the lives they couldn’t have because of me.

So I’m starting over somewhere new. A place where no one knows my name. I’ll never forget these months I spent with you.

I’ll treat our time together like a dream I was never meant to have.

I know you’ll be angry that I’m leaving, but truly, Jude, you can have anyone you want.

Hurting you is the last thing I want, especially with everything that’s going on, but I don’t want to add to your burden or cause you harm.

Mom said I’m a curse who’s meant to hurt everyone around her, and as much as I’m trying not to think that way, I believe I truly am. First, it was Mario, then Preston, and maybe the next time, it’ll be you.

I don’t think I’ll be able to live if you get hurt because of me, Jude. I just can’t.

Consider me a coward who ran away.

I hope you will respect my wishes.

Don’t look for me.

Please let me go.

Blue