Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 5

5

A few hours later, I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.

I should be home, but I don’t have one of those.

My only home—my mother—was ripped from between my fingers in a gruesome scene.

So here I am again.

Tilting on the edge of violence, rage, and…something else I can’t quite pinpoint.

I lean against my bike, my arms crossed, the chilly night air curling around me like a ghost.

I barely feel it against my leather jacket slipping off me, like I’m made of something the cold can’t touch. My helmet stays on, visor down, turning the world into a dim, distorted reflection. I prefer it this way—keeps the filth at arm’s length.

Across from me, ‘HAVEN’ glows in flickering neon blue, casting a sickly light over the cracked sidewalk and the half-smoked cigarette butts crushed into the pavement.

The irony of the name isn’t lost on me. This place is no fucking haven—just another Stantonville hole-in-the-wall where men rot from the inside out and women learn to smile through it.

The air is thick with the stench of old beer, fried grease, and sickening desperation .

Stantonville is a shithole, always has been. Its streets sag under the weight of rusted-out cars, busted streetlights, and people who stopped trying a long time ago. A far fucking cry from Graystone Ridge, where power drips from every surface and the world bends to the will of men like me.

But even in this dump, she stands out.

Through the bar’s hazy windows, I catch a glimpse of her moving behind the counter, wiping down glasses, her mouth set in a small line.

She looks like she belongs here. And at the same time, like she doesn’t.

Violet Winters is a contradiction of epic proportions.

Starting with her hair. It’s not red, not blonde, but something in between, like fire and honey tangled together. It’s a little messy, just past her shoulders, with strands that slip from behind her ear when she moves too fast.

Then her face. Too soft and full of disturbing innocence for a place like this. Heart-shaped, delicate, like something carved from porcelain and left in the hands of men who don’t know how to handle fragile things.

I’m one of those men who keep just…wanting to break her fucking neck. See that face shattered to pieces right beneath my shoe.

But one of the biggest contradictions?

Her eyes, blue and troubled but not the type that fade into the background. No. They slice through shadows, searching, like she’s always looking for something that’s just out of reach.

Like right now.

She stares out the window and freezes. Her hand holding the glass shakes uncontrollably and she drops it on the counter .

I don’t hear the shatter, but I see it. In the slight jump in her shoulders and the way her lips form an O . I can almost feel the tremors racking her body like when I cornered her in that filthy alley last night.

Violet Winters is scared of me. No. Terrified.

She should be.

Because Kane and Preston are right. All my previous targets are buried six feet under, and she’ll join them.

Soon.

The bartender, a tall guy with a buzz cut, checks on her, and she flinches slightly, but then she forces her lips into this mechanical smile as she picks up the shards of glass.

With her bare fucking hands.

Naturally, she pricks her finger, and the bartender grabs her hand and presses a napkin on it, saying something to which she smiles.

Awkwardly.

I suppose her coworkers wouldn’t know it’s awkward, considering she always seems to be smiling as if her life is perfect and she’s the happiest goddamn person alive.

She’s not.

Subtly, too subtly, she pulls her hand from the guy’s grip and bends over, but she’s behind the counter now, so I can only see the bartender as he looks down.

I tilt my head to the side. What the fuck is happening behind that counter?

The moment lasts for a while before he moves at the raised hand of one of the customers.

Violet emerges soon after and scurries out of view.

My fist clenches and unclenches as I watch the place she disappeared to.

She’s always…disappearing .

With a grunt, I hop onto my bike and drive it to a secure parking lot, then I walk back in time to see them leave.

I wait by the corner as Violet waves at the bartender and they go their separate ways.

She glances around, probably looking for me, and when she doesn’t see me or the bike, her tense shoulders relax and she pulls the hoodie low on her face. That’s what she always wears if she’s not in her work shirt—baggy, unflattering hoodies that don’t showcase her body.

I follow from a safe distance as she performs her usual ritual. She buys sandwiches from some greasy fast-food place, then walks back to her shithole of a neighborhood at a brisk pace, her eyes aimed at the ground.

Always.

She has no idea I’m watching.

Not when I make myself unnoticeable. She only sees me when I want her to see me.

Though she wasn’t supposed to last night, but I couldn’t just stand by and let another man play with my toy.

Only I get to break her.

I watch with a barely contained snarl as she gives the homeless people food and then cautiously approaches the alley in which I cornered her last night.

She glimpses behind her and then goes in, quickening her steps.

I stand in place.

If she looks back again, if she searches for me one more time, I’ll finish her.

Kane and Pres are right. It’s long overdue.

Maybe I’ll just kill her without the hunt I make every target go through just so they’ll feel the desperation.

See a light at the end of the tunnel, only for it to be me .

Their grim reaper.

But that wouldn’t solve the mystery as to why I haven’t ended Violet’s miserable life up until now.

See, there’s one more contradiction about Violet Winters.

The worst of all.

She’s a girl who feeds the homeless while staying hungry, volunteers at multiple charities, and stops to play with kids and dogs. She also checks on people on the side of the road, even if they look forgotten, in pain, or simply done with life.

I know, not only because I’ve done my research—or Kane did—but also because I was on the receiving end a couple of years ago.

The rain pours down on me, plastering my torn shirt to my body, seeping into the cuts all over my face and chest.

I can’t walk anymore, so I sit by the bridge, my bloodied knuckles hanging off my bent knees, the sting of raw skin drowning beneath the downpour.

My body throbs, every nerve alight in the aftermath of my latest trial for Vencor. Physical. Fists, boots, words—the founding members wielded them all like weapons, and they made damn sure I felt every single one.

I was tasked with fighting my way out of a literal violence fest, and I did. Because Mom needs me to be powerful so I can protect her from this world. Regis—the man who contributed in making me—sure isn’t.

Julian has always said that the only way to protect those I love is to rise in the ranks, beat up those at the top, and take their place. It’s to make sure those who look up or covet my position would end up with a chopped-off neck.

There’s no room for weakness or second thoughts. A moment of hesitation can mean losing my mom—the only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally .

So I aced the trial, left the men who went against me in worse shape than me, and finished before even Kane and Preston.

I have to check on them, see how they did, but for now, I’m just…so fucking tired.

As I stare at the horizon where the deep clouds meet the lake, I find solace in the small patch of orange that’s trying to slip through. Despite the rain, despite the gloominess, there’s that little smidge of brightness that just refuses to give in.

And it gives me hope that I’m the patch of orange for my mom. The reason she’ll hold on to life.

But then it’s snuffed.

The sliver of orange is suffocated by the dark clouds, murdering any sense of expectation.

The rain pours, soaking through my clothes, dripping down my lashes, filling the spaces between my fingers with cold. It doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease, just keeps pounding against my skull like a slow, relentless hammer.

On and on as if attempting to rinse the blood off of me.

And failing miserably.

I just sit there, letting it drown out everything, staring at the pavement slick with water and blood.

Red is still a color in the darkness. If it’s the only hope I have, then so be it.

The rain stops.

No, it doesn’t.

Something’s blocked it.

A pair of beat-up sneakers come into view, water pooling around them, the edges darkened by the downpour. My gaze trails up, taking in the faded jeans clinging to slim legs, a black hoodie pulled low over a delicate face that’s covered by thick-framed glasses .

But they don’t manage to hide the deep-blue eyes.

Fuck. Those eyes.

I’m held hostage staring at them and the conflicted emotions they carry in the clear, bright blue—perturbed, soft, but also searching.

The girl holds an umbrella over our heads, the fabric sagging under the weight of the rain.

Blue. Just a shade lighter than her eyes.

She’s angled it more at me, letting the downpour soak the shoulders of her hoodie, dripping on her worn-out backpack.

There’s no flinching, no hesitation. Not at the sight of my busted lip, the split skin stretched tight over my cheekbone, or the blood smeared on my face and down my throat.

Not even at my clothes, torn and damp, clinging to me like the last evidence of a fight I barely walked away from.

No disgust.

No wariness.

Just concern.

Pure, unfiltered concern for a fucking stranger.

I say nothing, just drop my gaze, willing her to fucking go.

“Do you need help?” Her voice isn’t pitying, isn’t careful, but steady, assertive. Like she genuinely means it.

“Fuck off,” I grunt low in my throat.

The sneakers slide back, just an inch, dragging against the concrete, but she doesn’t leave.

Instead, she reaches into her backpack and presses something into my bloodied palm.

A chocolate caramel protein bar.

“Sorry, that’s all I have. Stay strong.”

Then, before I can tell her to shove her sympathy up her ass, she does something even dumber .

She places the umbrella in my hand and runs off.

Holding her backpack over her head as she disappears into the foggy rain.

That was my perception of Violet Winters. A Goody Two-shoes who would stop and help as much as she could when others wouldn’t even bother to look.

So why the fuck is her name and face on the list of people who stood by in a public square as my mother was stabbed to death twenty fucking times?

As I watch her scurrying through the alley, I want to grab and shake her. To kill her and avenge my mom.

But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

As if feeling my gaze, Violet pauses, glances back, and freezes, her eyes widening and her shoulders shrinking.

She shouldn’t have looked back.

Because I’m striding toward her, and this time, I will burn that first encounter out of my mind.

She’s not the girl with the haunting eyes, blue umbrella, and chocolate caramel protein bar.

She’s one of them.