Venom: A Dark Retelling

by Dee Garcia

“Ready?”

  “No,” I say, “but who would be?”

  “I’m going to be here the whole time.” A promise.

  Holding a hand out for me, Violet urges me toward him. “I told her everything is going to be fine.”

  “It is. You’ll see,” he agrees. “You’re making the right choice.”

  I wish I felt like it was.

  “Whether it is or not, let’s just get this over with.”

  Callan doesn’t reply to my commentary, ushering me further into his room. First thing I notice is Doctor Ward and an examination table waiting over by the bed. The massive bed, I should add, the biggest I’ve seen in my entire life. It’s regal, four-poster frame sits beneath velvety crimson curtains, the linens a deep scarlet as well, topped off with warm, golden pillows.

  “I’m going to take great care of you, I promise, okay?” Doctor Ward states, pulling my attention away from all the lavish detailings of Hook’s chamber.

  Seeing him again renews an attack on my nerves, but I nod regardless, willing myself to relax.

  “Right so, you’ll need to undress from the waist up, dear. Here’s a sheet. I’m going to give you a minute to get to it. We’ll be ready to get started after that. Sounds good?” He passes me the crisp, white sheet, kind, green eyes shining.

  Another nod, prompting both him and Callan to make a beeline for the en suite bathroom. Not saying I don’t appreciate the privacy, but I’m left there wondering if it’s really necessary. My stare remains fixated on the now closed door for several long moments before I finally snap into action, stripping free of the kiwi-green nightgown I’d gone to bed in. The simple motion, bending over to retrieve it from where it pooled at my feet, shoots a piercing ache to the base of my wings.

  Sends my emotions for another spin, too.

  I cycle through almost every single one and, in the end, when the last one fizzles out, I send my rumpled nerves with it as well.

  I have to do this. I just hope I can handle what comes next. No knowledge or hostility toward my father’s kind is enough to prepare me for that.

  “I’m ready,” I announce.

  I’m not, I’m anything but, but I’m determined. I want to be free of this darkness, this ugliness within me, but I don’t want to die anymore. I don’t think I ever did, I was simply looking for a way to escape what had festered in Peter’s wake.

  And now, far too much has changed.

  The main thing stalks out of the bathroom, cool as a fucking cucumber. And in his hand? A bag. A blood bag.

  “You have two choices,” he explains, tossing the pouch from hand to hand.

  Oh my God, enough with choices. “Don’t let me choose.” I scoff a laugh, trying my absolute damnedest not to center on how he seems to just glide right up to me. “This is your area of expertise. You tell me.”

  Callan considers this, bouncing his gaze between the bag and myself. “Drink it now. It’ll help heal you as he goes.” As the doctor had done with the sheet, he offers over the bag, regarding me closely.

  I take it, hand sinking from the unexpected weight. “I guess I’m doing it now then.”

  “How do you want it?”

  That question.

  Breathless from where my mind goes because of it and the huskiness of his tone, I drag my gaze on him. “What do you mean?”

  Hook tips his chin at the plastic pouch in my hands. “Do you want the bag? A glass? Tigerlily volunteered herself if you want to—”

  “The bag is fine,” I blurt, squeezing my eyes shut. “I may have agreed to this, but I haven’t wrapped my head around that yet. How do I do this?”

  It’s weight is intimidating. There’s a lot of blood in there and I can’t help but wonder whose it is.

  “Just take the tube and suck,” he instructs.

  And suck.

  He’s trying to kill me.

  Flipping the pouch around, I pull the tube free from beneath a clear seal with a shaky hand and twist off the cap. The faintest hit of its particular smell tickles my senses, kind of like the night out in the garden.

  “Don’t overthink,” he adds. “Just relax and drink. You’ll know when it happens.”

  Is he leaving?

  I’m instantly panicked at the thought of doing this alone. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  The very corner of his mouth turns up in that warm smirk as he shakes his head. “Never. Unless you want me to.”

  “No, don’t. Stay.” My hand reaches out for him. I don’t want to do this without him. “Stay with me.”

  A single step and he’s right there, hands falling to my hips, pushing me back toward the examination table. “I’m right here. You’re going to be fine, you hear me? Relax, take a breath.”

  I do as instructed, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, mentally begging everything within me to mellow out. I’m moving, too, but that’s Callan’s doing. He’s lifting me onto the cool table, pushing the sheet up my legs and settling himself between them.

  “That’s it. Breathe, love. You’re going to be fine.”

  His voice is so soothing, yet so oddly empowering, too. I soak it all in, feed off his words, and as my pulse begins to slow, I tentatively lift the tube to my lips.

  Sucking as he ordered.

  A blast—that’s the best way I can describe what happens as that metallic tang soaks into my tastebuds anew, exploding through my system, into every crevice of my veins harder than any adrenaline rush.

  It’s euphoric, honestly.

  Nothing like I was expecting.

  The little taste I had prior was nothing in comparison to this. I can’t stop now for the life of me, sucking and sucking, each one more enthusiastic and ravenous than the last. I need more, want more, a draconian instinct searing itself into every fiber of my being.

  The more I drink, the more I understand what he said: I’ll know. I can feel it—how everything’s altering, growing clearer, more vibrant.

  “Keep going, baby girl, you’re doing fucking amazing.”

  Baby girl. Have I mentioned how much I love it when he calls me that?

  I’m so eager to hear it again, I start squeezing the bag, downing the stream with such gusto until the last of it starts to pull through.

  “There we go.” He chuckles darkly, his lips at my ear, grip on my thighs tightening, keeping me grounded.

  Shivering under his touch, I squeeze my eyes shut and let my head fall back, inhaling the deepest, most cleansing breath I’ve taken in a long time.

  This feels so. Fucking. Right.

  So right that I nearly miss the last of the transition as it takes over me, sealing my fate for the rest of time.

  I’ve officially sold my soul to the devil, scripted my name in this mortal’s blood—whoever it may be—and there’s no going back now.

  “That was…” I start, speechless, relishing the burning in my gums.

  “Delicious?” he coos, firing a quiver right to that space between my thighs.

  Yes.

  “Satisfying,” I toss back breathily. “Rousing.”

  “And it’s only the beginning.” The bag’s taken from me, replaced with his hands. “Let’s get through this first though, okay?”

  Ten minutes later, Callan’s re-emerging from the bathroom a second time with Doctor Ward on his tail. I’m nervous all over again. Have been since he left me alone, still riding the high from my transition. I don’t remember much of anything except the anxiousness, the awareness of how different everything is.

  Of what I have to go through next.

  Of how I want more.

  I must’ve jumped to my feet at some point, too, because I’m standing with the sheet wrapped around me, closer to Hook’s bed than the steel table.

  “You already look much better,” the doctor says jubilantly, reaching for a pair of gloves from his bag. “Shall we get you feeling one-hundred percent again?”

  I nod, but I’m still in this daze where everything feels unreal. The speed
in which my thoughts race, the images flitting through...

  “Lay down right here for me, face down.” He instructs, patting the table.

  My sights fly to Callan in hesitation. He nods, confidently, dropping onto the edge of his bed. “Has to be done, love. I’ll be right here to hold your hand.”

  “The anesthesia should help quite a bit,” Ward chimes in. “You might still feel discomfort but—”

  “I don’t want it,” I voice evenly.

  Both the Captain and the doctor blanch in tandem. “What?”

  “I don’t want it. If I’m going to do this, I need to feel all of it. When it’s done, I can finally let these demons go. I can finally be free.”

  That’s what I’m hoping will happen at least.

  “I don’t think that’s a—” the doctor begins, but Hook comes to my aid, vouching for my reasoning.

  “She can handle it,” he vows.

  My chin juts up at his words as I turn my attention back on Doctor Ward.

  “You’re sure this is what you want, dear?” Doctor Ward snaps his gloves in place, brows cinched with worry.

  I nod. “It’s the only way.”

  And with that, I swivel the sheet so the ends drape behind me, and maneuver my way onto the table. The moment I’m situated, Callan reaches out without warning and pulls the table toward him, close enough that I can, in fact, feel him for support.

  Taking my hands, he gives them a little squeeze and sets his head beside mine as Ward goes about basic preparations. “Breathe, nice and easy. I’m right here.”

  Perhaps so, but that doesn’t take away from the immediate pang of terror I feel as the doctor applies the antiseptic.

  Tears spring free long before I recognize their presence, trepidation weaseling its way back to the forefront of it all. The clanking and rustling of his tools is all I hear, along with the harsh echo of my anxious heartbeat roaring through my ears. I’m suddenly second-guessing my rejection of any pain management when the doctor sets a gentle hand just beneath my ring wing.

  “I’m not going to sugar coat it—it’s going to hurt, and I deeply apologize for the pain you’ll feel under my hand. However, I’m going to work as quickly as possible. If it becomes too much to bear at any point, we can take a break.”

  “No breaks,” I croak. “The faster we get this over with, the better.”

  He doesn’t respond, but I sense the shifting of his body as he reaches for what I presume is a scalpel. Must be just that because Hook squeezes my hands again, prompting me to clench my eyes shut. I’m waiting for the final warning in sick anticipation, gut roiling, blood pumping.

  It never comes.

  One moment, the world around me is still, silent, and the next—I’m screaming, writhing in pain as the blade slices through the top of my wing. Layer upon layer, tendons and dead nerve endings are slivered, separating this essential part of me from my body. Warm streams of blood pour outward, down my back and onto the table, dripping onto the hardwood floors.

  Doctor Ward’s hand may be delicate, but the scalpel is not. It’s unforgiving, much like the jagged rocks beneath the cliff.

  Jump.

  Again, that voice.

  And again, I abide to its demand.

  A few steps back and I throw myself into the air. My wings try to move in their rightful, instinctual state, but each flutter elicits a pain so sharp and so deep within me, I grow more crippled by the second.

  Crying out.

  Free-falling.

  The asperous ground now closer than the cliff’s ledge.

  It’s then I realize there’s no going back, there’s no saving me, that I’m going to die—a horrified scream breaking free from my—

  I cry out again at the memory, the harrowing sound of my banshee-like shrill reverberating off the walls as Ward continues fileting his way through.

  “No more, no more!” I screech, despite knowing damn well this is far from over, and the worst part is that, the further down he goes, the more I can feel every singular slice.

  Seized by panic and hysteria, that’s when I start struggling, putting Hook in a position I know without a doubt he never wanted to be in.

  His grip tightens, pulling my arms downward as he lays the side of his face against my own, keeping me pinned to the table with all his might.

  I should feel safe beneath him, yet I don’t. I feel trapped, suffocated, lungs burning from the force of my cries. Cut after cut, scream after scream, that’s all I remember from that point on...until suddenly, the boisterous clank of the scalpel dropping onto the tray breaks through the hellish fog.

  “We’re done,” Doctor Ward states, tone exhausted, defeated.

  I don’t move, even after Callan sets me free and his warmth fades away. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m spent, traumatized, still feeling that damn blade regardless of the fact it’s gone.

  Regardless of the fact my wings are gone.

  The urge to mourn the loss of them is there, right fucking there, but there’s not a tear left to cry. I’m dried up to the core. Just the thought sparks the flame in my already blistering throat. That flame of desire, the one begging for sustenance.

  I need it, now more than ever. My mouth waters as I remember what it tasted like splashing over my tongue.

  I need it.

  “Callan,” I call out hoarsely, using every bit of strength I can muster to lift myself off the table. It’s a struggle, I’ll tell you that much. I feel so goddamn weak, nauseous, arms trembling, spirit shattered.

  When will this hell end?

  “I’ve got you.” His voice is closer than I expected it to be.

  It’s what I cling to as gentle arms maneuver me from the table to the edge of his bed. As deft hands slip my nightgown up my legs and set the thin straps over my shoulders.

  “Here,” again his voice.

  An offering in which I force my blurred gaze upward. The sight of it takes what little breath I have away. I gasp, vision focusing in a scarlet tunnel on the bag in his hand.

  Can practically smell it, taste it.

  I want it like I’ve never wanted anything else in my life...but I also want him.

  Everything within me reawakens in a mind-numbing, clusterfuck of a crescendo, sparking life through my veins in a frenzy of speed and strength I didn’t know I possessed.

  I’m rushing him before neither one of us can fully process what’s happening. A grunt bursts forth from his mouth as his back hits the wall, hands falling to my hips, the tips of his fingers digging roughly into my skin.

  I’ve shifted, I know I have, because his features morph, too, the whites of his eyes flooding in crimson pools. His scent has always intoxicated me, but right now, it’s more potent than ever before, billowing up my nose, dropping my stare to the raging vein in his neck.

  Thump, thump.

  Thump, thump.

  Thump, thump.

  My gums burn and pulse in tempo, and I actually feel the moment my fangs drop, elongating in razor sharp peaks.

  Peaks I want to dig into his neck.

  “Go on. Do it,” he coaxes me knowingly, that damned vein thundering, calling to me. “Do it, Tinksley. Feed on me. Do it, do—”

  I’m going for it despite the fact I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.

  I suppose I don’t have to, it’s all instinct at this point, right?

  All I know is I need to feed and not from a cold bag. I want him, want his warm blood sliding down my throat, sating the need he claims will never be filled.

  And yet, as his very lifesource blasts over my tongue, I feel more sated than ever, more content and sure of myself than I ever have before.

  This is me.

  This is possibly who I was always meant to be all along, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even a redo. There’s no going back and I don’t want to go back.

  Rest In Peace to Tinksley Bell the halfling—she’s dead and gone.

  For good this time.

  ♫ B
eautiful - Bazzi & Camila Cabello ♫

  Sixteen hours and—I check my watch—fifty-two minutes.

  That’s how long it’s been since I tasted her.

  Since I let her latch onto me and take her fill. What started out as her feeding, regaining her strength, turned into a heated, blood-drenched kiss. I’m sporting a semi beneath this damn table just thinking about it, replaying it in my head every ten minutes in an idiotic attempt to keep these vicious desires in line.

  Keywords there, friends: idiotic attempt.

  All that’s done is make me hungrier for her, more desperate, so fucking horny it’s bordering on vile. You’d think I’ve never been with a woman before, and in some ways, it almost feels that way.

  There’s no one like Tinksley. I may not have left my mark just yet, but when I finally do, she won’t be the only one bearing an imprint.

  “Cap, what do you think?” Sam’s voice breaks through another episode of Tinksley taking every last inch of my dick, streams of blood running down her tits.

  I drag my gaze around the drawing room table, then turn back to Sam. “Repeat that one more time. I want to make sure I heard you right.” Didn’t hear shit with that image playing out, obviously.

  “The rest of the Sacred Six—there’s still four of them, yeah? If they set a boundary spell to the Hollow, shouldn’t they be able to do the same to the Cove?”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  “That’s a really good question. I don’t know the answer to it, but you do have a point.”

  “If the six of them were needed to cast the original spell on the Hollow, I highly doubt they’re going to be able to duplicate it with two pieces missing.” Armand chimes.

  “Fair point,” I agree. “That’s something we’ll need to discuss with them. Sam, are you willing and able to request a meeting with the Six?”

  Sam shakes his head, expression forlorn. Defeated. “Neither one of them are speaking to me at the moment.”

  As I said, caught in the wicked throes of Nina and Brielle. “And why is that?”

  “Nina found out Brielle was here with me while they were supposed to be out looking for Aester.”

  Interesting. “Did she not give her partner the leeway to indulge with you?”