There are two sides to every story.
Until there are three.
And ours isn't for the faint of hearts.
***
SWEET VENOM is a crazy in love novel set in three point of views - crazy, crazier and craziest. This is a love triangle that is not made for those looking for an easy love story or an obvious end.
If I were you, I'd be careful who you fall for.
This is STANDALONE.
Meant for mature readers due to murder, violence and sex.
“Sorry!” I exclaim, noticing a young woman in a purple satin hoody. “I wasn’t looking where I was going!”
“It’s okay,” she says, her voice delicate. “Flower,” she says, a small, polite smile lays upon her pink lips and holds out a freshly cut pink orchid with a pink ribbon around it. “Treasure it.”
I take it, mesmerized by the beauty of the orchid. I look up, but she’s no longer looking at me and starts to slip away, but I grab her wrist before she can disappear.
“Thank you,” I tell her, grateful.
“No,” she starts to say, a bright smile bears her teeth. “Thank you.”
I let her go, leaving her to continue on through the groups of people.
“Ashley!” Lawson yells above the crowds and I look up to see him using a street light to get him higher than the crowds of people. “C’mon!”
I look once more behind me, noticing the blonde’s gone. I face toward Lawson who urges me to get to him and I listen. I keep the flower close to me and make my way through the masses. I catch up, the flower protected against my chest as I try to get passed people without damaging it. I make it to the front of a shop where everyone’s waiting and as I fall before them, I allow the flower the breathe.
“That got crazy,” I say, exhaling heavily. “But got given this,” I mention, putting the flower out.
A white tag declaring MARDI GRAS falls from my palm and I look proud with this collectable.
“By who?” Lawson barks, stepping forward to grab my hand. “Who gave you this?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the orchid. “Some girl … she had a hood up, but she was blond. Why does it matter?”
Lawson says nothing, but takes the flower from me. His gentle with it, delicately touching it as if it’s the most fragile things he’s ever been given. I watch him pick at the ribbon with the tag on it. His face pales and he returns his gaze to me.
“It’s got your name on it,” he states and he spins the Mardi Gras tag to show my name in clear, curly red lettering.
My heart sinks.
“What?” I ask, reaching for it. “How is that possible?”
“Where is she?” he asks, his voice taut. “Which direction did she go in?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, trying not to let fear get a grip on me. “Back towards our balcony, I guess. Who gave me this?”
I can see that Lawson doesn’t want to reply. His jaw becomes tight and he wets his lips, shuffling between his feet. I also see his effort not to run in that direction making the situation even harder to understand.
“Lawson,” I say, trying my hardest not to sound frightful. “What the fuck is going on?”
My question puts him more on edge, so he’s looking over his shoulder at everyone behind him. It’s now I see that they all hold the same solemn, bereaved look he did when he saw the pink orchid. Slowly, he turns back to me with a severely grave look in his eyes and he seems to have entered a trance as he looks back at the orchid. Gradually, he brings his eyes from the flower to mine and I see fear in them.
“She’ll rain down petals before she rains down hell,” he whispers, reluctantly giving me the flower back.
“What?” I ask, feeling my brow tightening. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Ashley,” Lawson starts, trying to steady his voice as his eyes fall once again onto the flower in my hand. “That’s the mark of death.”
Author, graphic designer, book worm, peppermint tea obsessive.
Kirsty-Anne stumbled across her love for writing as she started university. Over the last couple of years she's found the style of writing that best defines her and her work. Her favourite genres to write are romantic suspense with dark themes, but loves to push her boundaries.
