Sins Of Her Venom
Chapter 42: I Own You

Chapter 42: I Own You

- Kathrine Andrews: (Song of the Chapter: House Of Balloons / Glass

Table Girls by The Weeknd )

As I stepped into the room, it was late, and my body was screaming with exhaustion after touring Paris all day.

Honestly, the whole "City of Love and Light" thing? Completely overrated. Half the streets smelled like piss.

I don’t know why anyone romanticizes this place when all I could think about was how rude some people were, especially to foreigners.

They stared at us like we didn’t deserve to exist in the same space as them like we were stealing their air.

Well, they can keep it because, frankly, their air smells like piss too.

The Eiffel Tower? We didn’t even go up today. That’s for tomorrow. Not that I care. It’s just another tourist trap.

The only redeeming thing about this day was getting to practice French with actual French people—who, by the way, would half the time just switch to English to spare themselves the effort of talking to us in their language.

Rude, but whatever. It was still decent practice.

When I reached my bed, I set down the small gifts I’d bought for my family back home. Then my eyes drifted to the empty bed next to mine.

Glyndon was nowhere to be found. Just seeing my bed brought a smirk to my face as I remembered last night—her sleeping between my legs, her cheek buried against my core.

The thought alone made something stir deep inside me. It was... amazing.

I grabbed some clothes from my suitcase, went to the bathroom, and took a quick shower.

After drying off and slipping into my sleepwear, I walked to the window, grabbed a cigarette, and lit it up.

I opened the window to let the smoke drift out, knowing full well that smoking in the room was probably against the rules.

Did I care?

No.

I don’t smoke often. Maybe once a week, if that. It’s not an addiction; it’s just... something to do.

Something to break the monotony or to help me relax. I could quit anytime if I wanted. I just don’t want to.

I took a deep drag, watching the soft glow of the city lights in the distance. The quiet was nice. Peaceful. Then I heard it—the click of the door unlocking behind me.

As I turned to the sound of the door unlocking, I exhaled smoke and found Glyndon stumbling into the room.

She wasn’t walking properly—her movements were unsteady, and as she closed the door and leaned her head against it, I could tell something was off.

She looked dizzy like she wasn’t entirely present.

I watched her in confusion, trying to figure out what was going on. Slowly, she shuffled toward her bed, but then she stopped mid-step and turned to look at me.

Her eyes were heavy-lidded, almost unfocused, and she was holding something square-shaped in her hand.

It was wrapped in gift paper and stuffed into a plastic bag. She wobbled over to my bed, placed it there, and pointed at it.

"Open it," she said, her voice slightly slurred.

I narrowed my eyes at her. Something wasn’t right.

Why was she talking like that? Why did she look like she might fall over at any second?

I took a final drag from my cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, and walked toward her. That’s when it hit me—the smell of alcohol.

"You’re drunk," I stated, almost incredulously, as I studied her. She didn’t respond, just stood there like she was waiting for me to do what she asked.

"What is that?" I asked, gesturing toward the thing she’d placed on my bed.

"Open it," she repeated, her tone blank but insistent.

I sighed, shrugged, and sat on the bed. I reached for the gift and started unwrapping it. As soon as I saw what was inside, my breath caught.

It was a toy—a miniature motorcycle. A tiny replica of the one I owned. My heart did this weird little jump in my chest, though I tried not to show it.

I looked at the gift in my hands, then back at her. "What is this?" I asked, my voice quieter than I’d intended.

"It’s for you," she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"For me? Why?" I asked, still trying to wrap my head around what she was doing. "Did you buy it for me?"

"Yes," she said, her voice unwavering. "You’re going to like it."

She wasn’t asking if I liked it. She wasn’t waiting for my approval. She just said it like it was a fact like I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

For some reason, that made me laugh—this drunk, stubborn version of her insisting on something so ridiculous.

"Okay, then," I said, grinning at her. "I like it. Thank you. But seriously, why did you buy it for me?"

Instead of answering, she started swaying again, and my reflexes kicked in. I reached out, grabbed her hand, and gently guided her to sit down on the edge of the bed.

She tapped the little toy, then tapped my chest with her hand, her touch warm and strangely grounding.

"For you," she mumbled. "You like motorcycles. It looks like your motorcycle."

I stared at her, completely thrown. I didn’t know what to say.

She was drunk, clearly out of her mind, but for some reason, that little gesture—the stupid miniature motorcycle—meant something. Maybe it was the alcohol making her act out of character, or maybe it wasn’t.

Either way, I couldn’t look away from her.

I stared into her eyes, and for a moment, everything else in the world seemed to disappear.

She looked back at me, her gaze soft yet somehow piercing, like she was trying to convey something she couldn’t say out loud.

Then, without a word, she leaned closer and rested her head on my shoulder.

And I let her.

I didn’t push her away or make some snarky comment to break the moment. I just let her stay there, feeling the warmth of her head against me.

That’s when she spoke, her voice quiet but filled with something I couldn’t quite place.

"That girl," she said, her words slow and deliberate, "your friend... she was sleeping on your shoulder, and you let her."

My eyes flew wide open at her words. What?

I blinked, staring down at her in disbelief. Was she... jealous?

No. That couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be serious. It had to be the alcohol talking—she wasn’t in her right mind.

There was no way Glyndon, of all people, would say something like that to me.

But before I could even fully process what she’d just said, I looked down at her and muttered, "Yeah, well... she’s my friend. Why wouldn’t I let her sleep on my shoulder?"

The next second caught me completely off guard.

I gasped in shock as she suddenly turned to look at me, her gaze no longer soft but sharp, and intense.

She wasn’t just looking at me—she was glaring. Her hand shot up, her fingers tangling in the back of my hair, gripping it tightly.

"What the hell—" I started, but the words died in my throat as she leaned even closer, her face inches from mine.

"Don’t let anyone do that but me," she said, her voice low and commanding.

I froze, my heart racing as I stared at her, caught somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and... something else.

Something I wasn’t ready to name.

I shoved her away, my hand trembling as I did it. I stepped back, glaring at her, my chest heaving with anger and something else—something I refused to name.

I hated this. I hated her. She wasn’t my girlfriend. We weren’t in love. She didn’t get to act like this. She didn’t get to tell me what I could and couldn’t do.

She didn’t get to be jealous.

She can’t. She does not. She will not.

This—whatever this was between us—couldn’t be something. It wasn’t a relationship.

It wasn’t... anything. Whatever I was doing to her, whatever I had started, it wasn’t because I cared. It wasn’t because I wanted her. It wasn’t because I liked her.

It was because I hated her.

I hated her for bullying me. I hated her for acting like she was better than me because she was rich.

All I want is to break her.

All I want is to shatter her.

All I want is to make her feel so much pain for being attracted to the lesbian she bullies, to the point that she could never look at me without crumbling. That was all this was. That was all I wanted.

I didn’t like her. I didn’t want her. And I sure as hell didn’t want her to like me back or act jealous.

I stared at her, my fists clenching at my sides as I hissed through gritted teeth, "You don’t get to tell me shit. You’re not my girlfriend, and you’ll never be anything near that. You don’t get to be jealous. You are just my little plaything."

And then she laughed.

She laughed.

My jaw dropped, and I stared at her like she’d grown another head.

What the hell was wrong with her? Was she so drunk she didn’t even know what she was doing? Was this what alcohol did to people?

She looked up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded but sharp, almost daring me to challenge her.

"I own you, Katherine Andrews," she said, her voice calm, steady, and far too confident. "And sooner or later, you’ll realize that."

Then, just like that, she flopped onto my bed, her body going slack as she passed out right there.

I stood frozen, staring down at her, my mind reeling.

What. The. Hell?