Page 16 of Lovely Venom

I make a pit stop in the kitchen, grabbing a bag of ice and a hand towel before I head back outside.

Seeing Daniel the doorman back at his post doesn’t improve my mood, and when he registers the murderous expression on my face, he opens his mouth to apologize. He doesn’t get the chance because I knock him on his ass with a single punch.

“Next time, maybe you’ll learn to fucking listen.”

When I open the back door of the car, Chantel is bundled up beneath the blanket, sipping her San Pellegrino and snacking on chocolate while she watches Pretty Woman on the entertainment system.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I had these in my clutch, and I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner.”

I nod, avoiding her gaze as I set her overnight bag on the other seat. She laughs at something on the screen, and it’s hard to miss how much she’s relaxed since she left the party.

“I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

“Eh, I find it relatable.” She shrugs.

“Which part?” I raise a brow. “The prostitution or the makeover?”

“The correct term is sex worker,” she huffs. “And I only relate because men in your world like to treat me like one.”

“Then stop letting them.”

“You’re in a mood.” She eyes me.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

I turn my focus to her ankle, uncovering it to examine the damage. As I do, my gaze drifts along the curve of her foot, all the way to the nail polish on her toes. It’s the same color she wears on her fingers and lips. A deep matte black cherry nobody else in the world could pull off.

She has a love affair with darkness—shades of garnet, burgundy, smoke, and inky violet.

I’ve heard her described as a siren by men who have no chance and Lilith by insecure women. They paint her as something divine or dangerous. A temptress wrapped in velvet, satin, leather, and lace.

The friends who know her best call her a black cat. Independent, mysterious, and selective with her affection. To my detriment, I know that beneath her armor, she’s softer than she’d like people to believe.

I apply the ice to the swelling along her ankle, and when my fingers brush her skin, a visible shiver runs through her. She looks up, and our eyes clash—a spark of confusion flaring in the depths of hers.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Her gaze moves over my face. “I thought you hated me.”

I shake my head, annoyed for a multitude of reasons. The first being that she can’t distinguish basic decency from kindness, and the second that it isn’t hatred I feel toward her, but resentment.

Either way, that’s not a conversation I’m willing to have.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I answer mildly. “I wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she muses. “Your reputation as a moody asshole will stay suitably intact.”

I nod and shut the car door, slipping into the driver’s seat and grabbing my phone.

“Now this is the part where it gets awkward,” Chantel says.

I glance at her in the rearview mirror.

“I’m not actually going home. The girls invited me to the island.”

Her delivery of this news isn’t all that surprising, considering she’s close friends with my sister and they share the same social circle. She visits our home on Black Stag Island frequently, and she’s at most of our family events. But now I’ve unknowingly committed to spending an additional hour on a boat with her.

For a moment, I consider my options. I could send her ahead of me and check in at the nightclub to make sure everything’s running smoothly. But that would mean Chantel would have to manage to get herself into the house on an injured ankle, which is a prospect I like even less.

“I’ll let the crew know we’re coming,” I clip out.