Venom wondered when she’d realize he was rich. It made him smile to think of the gift he’d ordered her—she’d either shoot him when she saw it or she’d laugh in amused delight.
Because Holly would make it.
Showering quickly, he dressed in a pair of jeans and a black shirt with long sleeves that he folded back; clothes in multiple sizes had been left in one of the guest suites for those who might come through. When he went into the kitchen, he found it stocked with food as promised. Had anyone from Michaela’s court become suspicious about so much food in the home of a vampire, their absent host had a ready explanation: it was for the human mistresses he kept for blood and sex.
Nothing unusual about that. According to Jason, the women never knew that they were literally only conveniences as well as smoke screens. The vampire treated them with politeness and generosity for the time that they hung on his arm and, when it was time to part, he made sure they were in a good situation. “He uses them for cover,” Jason had said, “but his heart is never going to belong to anyone else. I think he lives only so he can wreak vengeance on Michaela through such methods as are open to him.”
Venom had witnessed that kind of love through time, but he’d believed himself incapable of it after his Making. He was too cold inside, the vipers and cobras that had been part of his Making marking him far more deeply than most people realized.
Bone-deep friendship? Loyalty? Fidelity? That he could do.
But the kind of love that softened a man and made him vulnerable? Love that was so intimate it dug its way into the soul and anchored in with millions of tiny hooks? Love that understood no boundaries, put up no walls, exposed its defenseless throat? How could a viper be capable of that?
Yet Venom was starting to believe he wasn’t only capable of it, he’d been built for it. Built to love with the same relentless will that had powered his psychic survival after the unthinkable horror of his Making. All he’d needed to awaken his heart, to turn on that switch of unyielding devotion, was one specific smart, fierce, and deadly woman who took no shit and whose fire was so bright that it embraced his cold without a blink.
Holly Chang. Sorrow. Kitty. Hollyberry.
No matter what he called her, she was the most dangerous adversary he’d ever faced.
Because once that switch flipped on, he knew it would never, ever turn off.
32
Holly stepped out of the glorious heat of the shower to find that Venom had thrown clothes on the bed in the spare bedroom she’d claimed. A loose white sundress with spaghetti straps and little eyelet holes in the lined fabric. It wasn’t what she’d have chosen, but, to be fair to Venom, there probably wasn’t much of a selection. She pulled it on . . . and had to laugh. She hadn’t seen the front, as it had been lying on the bed with the back showing before she tugged it on over her head.
That front had splatters of color across it.
“Okay,” she whispered into the mirror, “you do get me.”
Not bothering with underwear since her spare pair was shoved in their backpack, which was probably still in the lounge, she brushed her damp hair until her scalp tingled, then headed out . . . straight into a rich, savory scent. Underneath that lay a softer undertone of sugar and cardamom and spice. Her stomach rumbled.
She ran to the kitchen.
And came to a sudden halt.
Feet bare and a pair of well-worn jeans hugging his butt, the black shirt he wore a little worn at the seams and his dark hair falling forward across his face, Venom was . . . She took a deep breath and, bracing her back against the doorjamb, pressed her thighs together. Tight.
When he looked up, she found herself caught in the lethal beauty of his eyes, as if he’d mesmerized her. Holly gripped the doorjamb, her hands behind her back. If she got any closer she might jump his bones, and watching him cook was way, way too much fun for her to end it just yet. “What’re you making?”
“Here.” The gorgeous man who’d given her the most wonderful vampiric feeding experience of her life put a plate on the counter. “Sit. Eat.”
When Holly padded over to scoot up onto one of the three breakfast stools that lined this side of the counter, she saw that he’d made her an omelet with all kinds of things in it. Onion, ham, green peppers, mushrooms. Her stomach rumbled. She’d eaten half of it before she looked up and saw him watching her, a smile playing with the edges of his lips. “Get back to your cooking,” she ordered.
And he laughed.
God, he was beautiful.
Her heart went all askitter despite what she knew of his view of relationships. Because Holly wasn’t thinking about just a fun time in bed. Not with him. Not with the one man who’d always pushed her buttons and who challenged her on a daily basis.
No matter what they’d convinced themselves, it would never be simple, not between them.
Eating the second half of her omelet with a little more grace, she watched as he picked up a covered bowl of what proved to be dough. After using his fingers to quickly bite off the dough and shape the bites into small, flat circles, he began to roll out each piece. The tendons in his forearms shifted with every move, the burnished brown of his skin taut over pure muscle. She suddenly understood the obsession with cooking shows on television. Because if the chefs all looked like this . . .
Her toes curled.
Dough rolled out, Venom cut each circle in half before turning on the power to the wok he had on the stove. It only took him a few seconds to pour in enough oil for deep frying. He’d already made something else in a little pot—the man was fast—and now shifted it next to the rolled-out dough. Then his hands were moving to create small triangular pockets so fast she could barely follow the movement; as she watched wide-eyed, in went the filling before he sealed up the final edge of the pocket.
“Are you making samosas?” she whispered, barely daring to interrupt the magic.
A quick nod before he dropped the prepared samosas into the hot oil. The sizzle of frying dough filled the air, making Holly’s stomach rumble all over again. The omelet had barely touched the hole in her belly. “Why am I so hungry all the time?”
Venom gave her a considering look. “Elena’s hungry a lot of the time, too.”
“That at least makes sense. I mean, she turned into an angel and grew wings. There’s probably all kinds of stuff going on inside her.” Holly drew in the delicious smell of Venom’s creation. “Can I please have one?”
“A little longer.” Venom flipped the samosas. “Keir,” he said, naming the senior-most angelic healer, “says Elena is still becoming, still growing into her new skin.”
“You think that’s happening to me.” Holly’s eyes widened as he lifted up another pot she hadn’t noticed at the back of the range, and poured a milky light brown liquid into a small mug for her.
She almost cried when she lifted it to her nose and sniffed—to be hit by the smell of cardamom and tea and the bite of other spices she couldn’t identify. “You made me masala chai?” It was stupid, how her throat got all thick. He couldn’t know how much she loved the stuff. So much that she’d given it up during the dark time when she’d wanted to end herself—she’d thought herself a monster who didn’t deserve anything nice, not even a simple cup of her beloved chai.
Venom said, “I saw the tea packets at your place in New Jersey before I was transferred out of New York.” A disdainful curl of his lip. “Real chai is made from the ground up. This is the quick-and-dirty version, until I have time to grind the right spices for you.”
Even though she knew it was too hot, Holly dared take a sip. The slight burn was worth it. The sweet, spicy taste swept through her like lightning. “If this is your quick-and-dirty version, I’ll probably orgasm at the real thing.”
A sharp look, Venom’s eyes glinting. “Drink your chai and eat this.” He put several samosas on a plate he’d already layered with paper towels, and then, as soon as the excess oil had been soaked away, he transferred the hot pockets to her plate.
Holly forced herself to put aside the delicious, delicious chai he’d made for her because he knew she liked it, and picked up a piping hot samosa using the tips of her thumbs and forefingers. “What’s inside?” she asked in an effort to make herself wait so she didn’t sear her tongue.