Page 237 of Sacred Venom

It’s a middle finger aimed at Zaiya.

She turns her head, gaze fixed on him as we pass.

I reach across and put my hand on her knee. To remind her that I’m here. Right beside her. All the way through this.

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a word. She just laces her fingers through mine and squeezes once. No fear. No doubt.

We leave the interstate and move into the city. Ahead, spotlights comb the sky over a historic building that used to be someone’s mansion. Now it hosts weddings and proms, and even political fundraisers where people pretend they’re donating money when really they’re trading power.

I pull up, and the valet approaches, eager to get his hands on my Murciélago. None of the old fucks here have the balls for a car like this.

He opens Zaiya’s door. She steps out, every click of her heels turning concrete into conquered ground. People turn to look, but she doesn’t give them the satisfaction of eye contact. Her focus is on one thing.

This isn’t simply a confrontation. It’s a reckoning.

It’s her walking into the life they tried to steal and letting them watch her take it back.

She turns to me when I join her, and the light catches the angles of her face. The high sweep of her cheekbones. The soft point of her lips.

Those big, round eyes find mine like they always do. We’re connected by more than the blood we’ve spilled. Our souls have intertwined into one.

“Ready?” she asks.

My mouth curves into a grin. Pride twists together with the hunger to see her shine.

I nod. “Lead the way.”

She walks in with quiet command, letting them witness what she’s become without them.

She’s there to rip the mask off her father’s face in front of every donor who ever shook his hand. To make the room understand what it means to kneel for a queen.

CHAPTER 53

ZAIYA

Edwin and I step through the double doors and into a ballroom full of guests. Candlelight trembles across round tables dressed in white linen, catching in crystal glasses and scattering it back in bright bursts of tiny, contained explosions. The ceiling rises far above us, painted with angels lounging in clouds, watching powerful people eat dinner below them for decades.

A string quartet plays near the front of the room, the music floating over the murky hum of conversation.

My dress clings to me, the green fabric pulling with every breath I take. I’ve returned baring my teeth.

Edwin’s hand rests on my back, possessive in a way that makes me stand taller. A man who looks that good in a tux should wear one more often. His handsome face is framed by the soft disorder of his blonde hair, his sharp jaw prickly with stubble. There’s an obvious danger to him, and everyone notices. Their eyes lower after they glance at him.

He looks every bit the wealthiest person in the room. And he knows it.

I keep my chin lifted as we move into the crowd. I’m walking into a lion’s den, except I no longer feel like prey. Even a lion is no match for a cobra’s venom when it gets close enough to strike.

Fragments of conversation about Patrick drift around me. People are talking about what happened to the Attorney General. How tragic it was that he and his wife died in a boating accident on the Mississippi River.

They speak his name with reverence. To them, he was a respectable person cut down by senseless tragedy.

Grief is a performance they’re all good at.

Speaking of which.

I scan the ballroom and spot a table off to the side. A large framed photo sits there, surrounded by bouquets of lilies and roses. A memorial display for what my parents claim to have lost.

My heart punches against my throat, trying to escape. I walk towards the table, my body moving on instinct, pulled by the force of that image. The room fades and all I can see is us.