Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 7

7

A crushing weight smothers me, pulling me down so viciously, I gasp, my eyes flying open.

At first, I think it’s sleep paralysis—that sickening awareness where my mind is awake but my body refuses to move.

But it’s worse than that.

A woman sits perched on my ribs like a demon, her seemingly skinny frame impossibly heavy, suffocating the breaths from my lungs.

Her once soft and beautiful face is now a grotesque mockery of what I remember. Sunken cheekbones, eyes stretched wide, pupils swallowing the amber, lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl. Our hair is the same color, but hers is longer, reaching her lower back in silky strands.

Mama.

“You bitch.” The bite in her cold, venomous voice slithers over my skin, seeping into me, crawling under my ribs and settling in my bones.

Like it belongs there.

Like it never left.

I try to move, to shift, but my limbs don’t obey me, remaining as rigid and motionless as cement .

Despite the numbness, I want to reach a hand out and touch her. Beg for her forgiveness.

Ask, Why can’t you love me, Mama?

That’s what other mothers did. They loved their kids and spoiled them. I was fine with not being spoiled, but I desperately tried to make her like me. Since we moved all the time, I had no friends, and she was my only source of affection.

Affection she never gave me.

Right now, her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails as sharp as claws. “Useless.”

She lifts her hand and slaps me, the sting reverberating in my cheek. “Your face is fucking disturbing! You’re the mistake of my life and the weight around my neck, Violet. A thing that shouldn’t have been born.”

I shake my head. A small, weak motion. The only rebellion I can manage—or could’ve ever managed. I want to speak, but my lips remain sealed shut as if stitched together with an invisible thread.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t fight.

I can only listen as she spits her rancid words into my ears, the stench of something decaying curling around my face.

“You killed me, you worthless piece of shit.”

Her hands tighten, her nails biting deeper, slicing through the fabric of reality, into my skin, cutting open the fragile pieces of myself that I try to keep together.

I didn’t, I want to say. I didn’t do it, Mama.

But there are no words in my throat, no sound except the way my pulse pounds and pounds and pounds against my skull.

She leans in, close enough that her lips brush my ear, her breath thick and rotting. “You’re a terminal disease who will kill anyone stupid enough to love you. Starting with Dahlia.”

The weight intensifies. My ribs groan under the pressure, my heart a frantic animal trapped in a cage that’s too small.

I scream.

And suddenly, I’m falling.

The world shatters.

And my shout reverberates in the small closet she shoves me into.

I jolt up, gasping, drenched in sweat, my pulse hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape me. Faint light greets me, and I release a breath.

It’s not the closet.

I’m not in the closet.

The air is still thick as my breaths come in ragged pulls. My unsteady fingers dig into the sheets, searching for something real. Something that isn’t her.

But her voice lingers, coiled in my head like smoke, and I press my hands to my ears as if that will dilute the words I can still hear.

I know Mama’s dead.

But, in reality, she never really is.

She lives on in my nightmares, always reminding me how useless I am. How I can never be…more.

My feet tangle in the sheets and I fall on my knees on the hardwood floor, groaning, but I jerk up and run to Dahlia’s room.

My breathing slowly eases when I see her sleeping peacefully in bed. I walk on my tiptoes and pull up the sheet that’s fallen off, then quietly close the door, leaning my back against it .

My fingers still shaking, I slide down to the floor, burying my face in my hands. It’s times like these when I just want to…end it.

Once and for all.

Just stop everything.

The nightmares.

The dark closet.

Mama’s cruel words.

My silly yearning for love and affection that I never received.

Except from Dahlia—she’s always loved me unconditionally. She lost her parents to an accident and, like me, was pinballed in the foster care system.

Unlike me, however, she has no silly notions of hopeless romanticism or an unattainable need for affection.

Or any late-night secret meetings with Death, toying with the idea of it as a coping mechanism.

But now, I’m putting the only person who ever cared about me in jeopardy.

Because he is still there.

Death.

And I know if I continued to toy with the idea, Jude would use her to put me back in my place.

I stand on unsteady legs and walk to the living room window. Tremors still plague my hands as I pull back the muslin curtain slightly, squinting at one of the few working lampposts, its glare assaulting me.

It’s four in the morning, so he should be gone by now.

But he’s not.

Across the street, I spot a parked black car. I can’t see who’s inside, but I know it’s not empty.

Over the past two weeks, ever since Jude declared that my life was his, I haven’t seen him around, but I’ve felt him .

Everywhere.

At first, it was a feeling of being shadowed. At work, in the neighborhood, but also during my college summer classes.

You’d think he’d have summer training or something better to do with his time.

But then I realized he wasn’t doing the stalking himself. About a week ago, I spotted a tall, buff guy near my place—a pseudo stalker of sorts.

That guy comes into HAVEN every day and walks me home.

I mean, not walk me, but sort of walks a safe distance behind me. The other day, he punched a drunk guy who tried to come close to me.

His name is Mario, which I only know because Laura has been talking—and flirting—with him. She thinks he’s become a regular because of her, and I don’t want to shatter her illusions.

Still, even though the whole thing has made me deeply uncomfortable, I’m glad I haven’t had to see Jude. That man terrifies me. Not only because of his vendetta or his ability to beat people to a pulp without blinking, or his violent streak on the ice I keep hearing about, but something far more distressing.

He has a curious ability to see through the chunks of my soul that I thought I’d expertly wrapped up.

And last night, he did something that probably contributed to the nightmare.

He got into the apartment.

I know because of the last entry in my journal, where I mentioned that maybe I could convince Dahlia to move away from here or even possibly leave on my own since I don’t have the heart to make her lose the scholarship she worked her ass off for.

Unlike her, I don’t care much about mine and would consider dropping out of college altogether and continuing to work part-time and take odd jobs here and there.

Last night, after Dahlia and I binged some Netflix and she went to sleep, I opened my journal to write an entry.

That’s when I saw it.

A sticky note with neat print handwriting.

Abandon any useless thoughts about escaping me. Don’t act stupid and force me to show you what I’m truly capable of.

My body trembled so hard upon seeing that.

He came into my home.

Was it the first time?

Or maybe the first time he’s made himself noticeable?

But why now of all times?

His unpredictable actions are messing with my head so badly, I looked around the apartment, searching for his ghost, terrified that Dahlia would see anything amiss, or worse, get involved.

Because Jude is right. I have no clue what rich, privileged, and violent people like him are truly capable of.

And I don’t want to find out.

Later that night, I’m back at work after spending the afternoon embroidering one of Dahlia’s shirts while listening to an audiobook.

“The usual.” Mario’s gruff words reach me from the other side of the counter.

Laura rushes to serve him his Guinness, grinning while he talks steadily. He’s older than me by a few years, maybe late twenties?

I think I need to warn Laura about him, but when I alluded to the fact that he might be untrustworthy the other day, she gave me a weird look.

So I keep those thoughts to myself.

The bar hums with low chatter, the thunk of glass against wood, the distant echo of laughter swallowed up by the bass-heavy music filtering through the speakers.

The usual crowd is gathered under the neon haze of ‘HAVEN’ like sinners seeking temporary absolution.

I work on autopilot, pouring drinks, wiping spills, and nodding along to slurred conversations that don’t require real listening. But then⁠—

Something shifts.

My skin prickles as if the air has been punctured, the oxygen thickening and darkening in increments.

I don’t see him at first. I feel him.

Like a storm pressing in before the first crack of lightning.

Jude strides in, dressed in black, built like a wall.

No, a warning.

A threat.

The low amber glow from the bar lights drags over him, sharpening every edge, casting shadows where shadows shouldn’t be. His black T-shirt stretches across his torso, and my eyes widen upon seeing what’s on his half-exposed arms.

Full sleeves of unintelligible ink.

They stand out like marks of war, like a language only monsters speak.

He moves like he owns the place. Like he owns everything.

And I hate that my pulse stutters at the sight of him .

That my entire body tenses and my senses go on high alert.

I grip the bar towel tighter, pressing my fingers into the damp fabric, forcing myself to breathe.

Because he shouldn’t be here.

He never comes inside.

He’s only ever been outside, lurking like something too big, too sharp, too dangerous to step into the light.

But he’s here now.

Like he was in my home last night.

Why…?

He sits beside Mario, but his presence carries a different kind of weight. Where Mario blends into the background, Jude shifts the entire atmosphere.

His arms rest on the bar, muscles coiled under the sleeves of black ink. Serpentine scales wrap around his forearm, climbing, coiling, each ridge and curve etched with such precise detail that I can almost feel the rough texture beneath my fingers.

A skull is inked on his wrist, cracked and hollow-eyed, as if it’s seen too much and survived anyway. Thorn-covered vines twist through the gaps, weaving between bone and shadow, like something alive waiting to bite.

Jude doesn’t glance at me. Not at first. He just taps his fingers against the counter in a slow, deliberate motion.

Then he speaks in a voice that snakes down my spine and settles in places it shouldn’t. “Double bourbon. No ice.”

His detached, dissecting gaze lifts toward me, and it’s as if he’s seeing straight through me, peeling me apart layer by layer.

I hate that Jude makes me feel this way.

I’m fully clothed, but I feel stark naked around him .

I swallow hard, my fingers twitching as I grab the glass.

There’s no reason for my throat to feel dry or for my pulse to thud unevenly.

No reason at all.

After I pour his drink, my hands steadier than I feel, I slide it toward him. His fingers brush against mine when he reaches for the glass.

And for a moment, our eyes meet, mine frantic, his intense and unforgiving, like the grim reaper I used to fantasize about.

A spark of something dark and ancient courses through me at the feel of his long, rough fingers, and I jerk mine away, feeling heat creeping up my neck.

His eyes narrow slightly, but I’m already rushing to another customer at the other end of the bar.

Even though I spend the rest of my shift trying to ignore him, I can feel him.

His eyes.

His attention.

His sheer presence.

It’s suffocating.

I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown, trying to think about what the hell he plans to do next.

I’ve been jittery for weeks, and I don’t think I can survive this for long.

Shaking my head, I choose to focus on work.

The tray wobbles in my hand as I move through the crowded back tables, balancing drinks with practiced ease, my mind staying three steps ahead.

That’s when a sharp slap cracks against my ass.

I freeze.

The tray tilts dangerously, liquid sloshing over my fingers. A sharp inhale burns my throat, but I swallow the yelp down, choke on it, and bury it where all the other moments like this go.

This isn’t the first time; it won’t be the last.

The cold, familiar feeling of disgust slithers through me, but I force a tight-lipped smile and step back before he can trap me⁠—

It happens so fast.

One second, I’m pulling away. The next, a rough shove knocks me backward, and my balance falters as the tray tilts from my grip.

The world lurches.

The crash of breaking glass shatters the air.

Beer spills in sticky ribbons over my hands, soaking into my skin before the sharp scent of alcohol hits me. But that’s not why my breath locks in my throat.

That’s not why the whole bar falls silent for half a beat.

It’s him.

Jude is no longer sitting at the bar.

He’s now lifting the bald, heavyset man who just spanked me by the collar.

Then punches him in the face.

The impact is sickening. A crack, a gurgled gasp, a splatter of red. The man barely has time to react before Jude throws him onto the table.

The wood splinters under his weight, shattering into two uneven halves. His friends stumble to their feet, wide-eyed, like they don’t know if they should fight or flee.

They should probably run.

Because there’s no stopping him.

Jude moves like a force of nature, not a man, not even a monster—just a raw, uncontrollable force. He punches. And punches .

And punches.

Like the first time we ‘met’—when he brutalized Dave until there was nothing left but blood and bone.

The look in his eye now is the same as then.

Blind rage.

No limits.

No conscience.

Mario blocks the other men, shoving them back like they’re nothing, ensuring Jude’s violent spree is left undisturbed.

I should leave. I should run.

Escape to the staff room, hide my face, pretend this never happened.

That’s what I always do.

But for some stupid, reckless reason, I push through the chaos, through the people shouting, through the beer mugs pounding against wood as the crowd chants, ”Fight! Fight! Fight!”

And then I do something I shouldn’t.

I touch him.

A tentative hand on his inked arm.

His muscles bunch beneath my fingers, as tight as steel cords. He’s still clutching the semi-conscious man by the collar, his knuckles dripping red, but at my touch, he swings around, his fist raised.

My breath catches and I flinch back, my hand burning where it touched him, as if his rage is contagious.

His pupils are blown wide, drowning the color in his irises in two pools of darkness.

Violence.

Rage.

It’s always as if he’s standing on the edge of something inhuman .

But then, for a moment, as his gaze locks on to mine, recognition flickers and his fist hangs in midair.

“Please stop.” My voice is quieter than the storm around us, but he hears it.

Because his gaze drags down to my mouth, like he can read the words off my lips, which twitch uncontrollably, crumbling under his attention.

The way he looks at me with that quiet intensity ignites a disturbing feeling inside me, a deep discomfort laced with an invisible thread I can’t quite cut.

The fight drains out of him.

Or maybe he just decides the man isn’t worth any more effort.

Because Jude lets security take the bald guy from his grip.

Then, in a single, casual motion, he pulls a stack of cash from his jeans and tosses it at the manager. “For the damage.”

And just like that—he turns and leaves.

Mario follows without a word.

I release a shaky breath, gripping the tattoo on my wrist as my knees threaten to buckle.

By the time my shift ends, I feel like I’ve been washed, wrung out, and hung to dry. Every inch of me aches—my back, my feet, my skull.

All I want to do is snuggle into my couch and fall asleep listening to an audiobook.

My backpack slung over my sore shoulder, I walk out of HAVEN, massaging it, already dreaming of patches, heat packs, and the blessed oblivion of sleep⁠—

My eyes widen and my fist that I’m using to rub my shoulder is frozen.

Because Jude didn’t leave.

He’s still here .

Dressed in black from head to toe, he’s leaning against his bike, his legs crossed at the ankles. His leather jacket and gloves radiate quiet menace as he toys with his helmet with controlled movements.

The streetlamp overhead flickers, its light flashing over the shadowed cut of his jaw and lips that are always set in a line.

I wonder if he ever smiles.

No.

I really shouldn’t care whether or not my stalker smiles.

I lower my head, quickening my pace in the opposite direction.

In a fraction of a second, a large shadow steps in front of me.

My stomach drops as heavy boots and dark jeans come into my vision. “You’re coming with me.”

My fingers twitch against my wrist, tracing my tattoo out of instinct. “Why⁠—”

“I’m over here.” His voice is low, steady, and completely void of patience. “Look at me when you talk to me.”

I lift my head, my pulse hammering. “I’d rather not go anywhere with you.”

“Your preferences don’t matter.”

Before I can react, he slams the helmet onto my head. “Hop on the bike, Violet. We have a long night ahead of us.”