Sweet Touch of Venom (Lethal Love #1)

25. Venom

Chapter 25

Venom

Location:

Ronan’s place

Operation: Torture Fred to death. Literally.

“ Y ou know you’re my favorite sister in the world, right?”

I dull my eyes at Carter as I ball up another paper with my failed attempt at drawing a rose. Why is it so hard to draw?

“I’m your only sister, idiot.” The crumpled paper lands in his trash can. Slam dunk, yes!

“Oh yes, that’s right. Sucks being stuck with you forever,” he teases, throwing his pencil at me.

I flip open a fresh sheet. “Sorry to be such a nuisance.” I chuckle, sketching the middle bud of the flower. “Mom needs you here to fix her security camera. She says the one you and Ronan gave her was, in her words, ‘a junkyard invention.’” I shake my head, envisioning how the petal should go.

Carter scoffs, flinging another item at me. “No, she did not, liar.”

I laugh some more as I spin around in his gray swivel chair facing him. Although he’s barely here, he always makes sure to come by for dinner on Fridays. I pretend I hate his company, but I always experience instant relief, like a breath of fresh air, when he walks through the door.

“Hey, ask her yourself.”

His lips purse in disbelief. Of course, I’m lying. His new security system he created works wonders, soon to be out in the world, probably being sold all over the world in no time.

I’m awakened from the flashback of Carter and me before he went off that night.

I still never got that rose drawn correctly, and after that day, I never tried again. I haven’t dreamed of Carter in years, and it must’ve been because of a Ronan, and I’s conversation last night.

If I were told I would be sitting in a living room drinking tea with him, out of all the people, talking about my brother, I would’ve snapped my own neck from the lie.

But nope. It happened.

I learned two rules. Basic rules. Probably rudiments no one would ever agree too because that would mean losing that piece of your life that humans naturally crave. For me, it was a given,

1. There’s no making friends or falling in?—

I swallow the lump, the simple four-letter word that I can’t even fathom thinking about.

You know what I’m saying. No relationships.

2. Never associate with the enemy.

I place my hair back in a slick bun, I brush the extra bangs and curls, sure none stick out like a sore thumb.

I wouldn’t say Ronan is the enemy anymore. He’s proven he’s substantiated. It’s been confirmed. Being stuck on killing him is far from my view, but it doesn’t mean I want to hash things out and be kumbaya.

This is still a mission, and I still stick to my rules; it protects me. Keeps me on the straight and narrow, not falling off—it prevents me from getting hurt. That’s why I’ll continue to add extra clay and mold on the walls around my heart.

You don’t have a selfish bone in your body. Not from what I’ve seen so far.

I suck in a light breath through my teeth, the pesky little flap hitting my belly.

I recall the stare he gave, a look of wonder and curiosity. That gaze you give when you’re discovering more than a single piece of information. One that you reach your hand out to, to behold what’s beneath the hard skin of the snake.

I wash the access gel off my hands before throwing on my black tank top and the leather jeans Kyra gifted me for my birthday two years ago.

That was the most thoughtful thing she has ever done, by the way. And I have held dear to them since then. Also, it fits me very well.

I quickly put on my combat boots—the ones with spikes sticking out the ankle rim. Then I do it once over in the middle, and head out of my room.

Random thought: I wonder if Ronan is still deciding to give me my own room?

I check my nails as I ponder on that question while walking out to the front.

“Bom dia.”

My heartstrings draw out, squeezing the muscle to death, and stunting my breathing. I nearly puddle to the floor at the baritone voice. I glance up and?—.

Everything in my body awakens, flying and flapping around like thousands of fireflies swarming together from the grass to sparkle in the night.

I inhale a tiny breath through my teeth. He’s leaning back on the kitchen counter, foot crossed over the ankle, and his arm across his chest while he chews on something; two water bottles sit in line on the kitchen island.

I stepped in further to investigate. He wears a crisp black shirt that hugs every curve and hard muscle on his broad shoulders, with all black denim jeans, and his hair is slightly wet, while some strands fall to the side of his eye.

Fuck me. There is no reason someone should look so good in such simple attire. He exudes his seriousness exceptionally well and tenacity of power. I swallow the log that never seems to go away.

“Bonjour.” I stroll further in the kitchen, and I realize he’s eating a mango. There are shaved skin remnants neatly bunched on a plate. I lean my waist into the island.

“Want some?” he asks, strolling slowly to the island as well with a piercing stare.

Do not clear your throat; he’ll know you’re affected by his stature.

I sit down on the black barstool. “No, I’m good. Thank you.” I tap my finger on the cold countertop, attempting, not very well, to avoid the way he watches me as he bites into the mango. His mouth slightly opens to take a hunk of the meat from the fruit, then his lips glide over the seed in a leisurely motion.

I clear my throat, gazing away until I’m back on the sight of the man who’s eating a mango more sensually than it should be.

Fuck you, throat. Betrayer.

Some juice leaks down his fingers…?his nice and long fingers. He has large hands…?very manly hands. Very…sexy fingers that can do probably do something magnificent to a certain, much, needier part of a woman's body. Not mine, of course.

“You don’t like mangoes?” he asks with that slur in his accent.

I grab for the water bottle, needing it to lather my dry ass throat. “No, I don’t like mangoes,” I say awkwardly. I do like mangoes, but the way he’s eating it should be a sin. Against the damn law.

He chews slowly, a twitch permitting on his mouth. “Come on. Try it.”

“Mangoes aren’t my thing.”

He licks up the juice delicately from his middle finger. “It can be. It’s sweet, delicious, and can be a bit sour.” As he’s talking, he places the seed onto the plate, grabbing a towel to clean his hands. “Kind of rough. But I promise you’ll enjoy it. It’ll fill you up nicely. You won’t ever think about any other fruit again,” he drawls in Portuguese, licking the juice from his lips. My eyes fall to the lascivious act as an unwarranted throb shoots between my legs, beeping like a signal; heat forms on my cheeks. He doesn’t know, but I understood every single thing he just said. I’m fluent in Portuguese, studied for two years, including Spanish.

And why do I feel like we aren’t talking about ‘fruits’ anymore?

And he is flirting with me? Is he actually intending we?…?my cheeks heat, and a tingle flicks down my spine. When did ‘like’ ever mean flirt, but hey since he wants to go there, I’m your best component.

“I’m more of a banana girl,” I say, bringing the bottle to my lips, falling into the trap. My tongue slightly glides on the rim before wrapping my lips over the ridges and drinking the water.

He watches the movement, his eyes deepening and wandering to my lips, then back up to me. “Bananas, hm?”

I nod, lowering the bottle, catching the spill over the side of my mouth with my tongue and licking it quickly. “Bananas are perfect.” I begin with a smirk. “Easy to swallow, even though it’s big and long. Sometimes thick depending on the tree. It fits in your mouth perfectly. You don’t choke on the juice, and it’s very, delicious.” I speak back in French, my native language.

I hope he doesn’t understand the language because we’re definitely not discussing fruits.

An inferno sets in his gaze, hardening right before me with a grin spreading further. I examine his face; the scar trailing down his cheek and the slice above his lip.

A vision of me licking up the marks fills my mind. Stop before you make a mess of yourself.

I lean over, placing my elbows on the counter with a tilt to my head. “I’m ready when you are, Headman .” I need to get to that dungeon and wipe this lust off on Fred’s face. Okay, that doesn’t sound right.

His gaze is tempestuous and if I wasn’t logical, I would stoke the beast some more, giving into my normal ways. The affliction I always send when I want to lure a man in.

Ronan is not that guy. No matter how sexy he looks, or downright sinister. I’ll never cross that bridge.

No matter how much the whispers in the darkness of my mind tell me otherwise.

*Bom dia- Good morning

Bonjour - Good morning