Page 33
The story starts in Chapter 33 of "Tempting Venom": His hair is a mess, damp blond strands falling over his forehead, his lip split,... Donāt miss it!
His hair is a mess, damp blond strands falling over his forehead, his lip split, and he winces slightly as he takes a pull from a bottle of Jack Daniels.
And for a moment, I just stand there.
Forget about whatever tantrum heās throwing or the five thousand-odd bucksā worth of sticks heās broken.
Somethingās a lot more interesting.
The man himself.
Preston really is a prince. Too golden, too effortless, yet somehow, he still manages to electrify the air around him with something raw and ancient.
The lights pour over his hair and turn it into liquid gold, soft waves brushing the collar of his Vipers jacket. His face is a contradictionāsmooth lines, sharp edges, symmetry so exact, it looks to be carved from something more deliberate than bone.
But itās his eyes I canāt stop tracking.
Green, but not the gentle kind. Not meadow or spring. His are darker, deeperāsomething closer to dangerous. The type of eyes I could imagine being the last thing Iād see before drowning. They pull and pull, until I forget Iām supposed to breathe.
Maybe theyāre enchanted.
Even bruised, with that split lip, exhaustion shadowing his eyes, and half a bottle in his system, he still looks untouchable. Like the universe built him out of pure temptation and then dared the rest of us to try resisting.
He still has that fairy prince faceāethereal, bright, abeauty that feels like youāre gazing into a light bulb on purpose. Itās blinding in all the wrong ways, but I just canāt stop staring.
And maybe thatās why I want to steal that light, bottle it up, and keep him all for myself.
Jostle him a little, punish him a little for daring to forget about me.
Not that Iām salty about something that happened fifteen years ago, but who knows. Maybe I am.
As I watch him, I have the urge to put him over my knee and teach him some fucking manners.
After all, heās the one who just happened to deliver himself to my door.
I step forward from behind him, my boots crunching on the ice.
My steps falter when I notice something.
Right behind his left ear, thereās a yin and yang tattoo, small and subtle, contrasting against the smooth, pale skin of his neck.
Preston turns around sluggishly, the black ring on his index finger scraping against the neck of the bottle.
I move before my brain catches up.
Standing behind him, I slide my hand up his neck, grab a fistful of his golden hair, and yank his head back so that heās looking at me.
Up close, his eyes are glassy, unfocused, but something happens when he sees me.
They widen. Just the slightest bit, the look caressing my face so closely, it sends a rush of blood to my head.
ThePreston Armstrong, who considers being unaffected an Olympic sport that he excels at better than hockey, canāt seem to control his expression around me.
The sight lights me up, spreading across my spine like a fiery explosion.
Looks like Preston truly fucked up this time.
Because Iām in the mood to test his limits and breach them.
A smile lifts my lips as sadistic tension coils in my stomach. āWell, this is one way to say you miss me,my prince.ā