Page 251 of Darling Venom
Tatum Marchetti, you are so damn screwed.
We ended up in the kitchen with a stack of takeout menus before us.
“I love you,” Charlie said casually. So fucking casually, it took a second to register.
I was getting used to hearing it.
Worse, I liked it.
Craved it, even.
She plopped down on the barstool, picked up the menu for yakitori, and turned it over, studying the back. “Any suggestions?”
“Yeah.” I tapped her temple. “Some ginkgo for your brain. You already said you love me.”
Again.
And again.
And again.
But there was an itch in my chest that only those words were able to scratch. I tried to figure out what was different between Charlie and Hannah that made me only want to hear Charlie utter the three-word phrase.
Why couldn’t I go for the more appropriate relationship? The one without the age gap? The one that didn’t make me feel like I needed to do fifty Hail Marys a night to avoid an eternity in Hell?
The answer was obvious.
The odd taste in music, clothes, and people.
The way she brought books to her nose and inhaled as if they offered their secrets to her when she got close enough.
Her laughter that was rare but wicked and racked her whole frame with its intensity.
Whatever made her the only person at St. Paul’s to befriend my weird kid brother, who wore kilts and fishnet gloves and frowns.
It was everything.
Just… her.
Charlie.
Sweet, loving Charlie.
At any given second, Charlotte Richards stared at me like she was ten seconds away from offering to burn herself to keep me warm.
And like a bastard, I lit the match.
Charlie’s theory—that I would get used to being told I love you and actually like it—was spot-on. No other explanation existed for why I found myself doing things I promised I’d never do.
This time, I let her enter my room.
My space.
My bed.
A few hours after we finished the takeout, she dove onto my sheets, landing on her back, eyes closed. I took a moment to watch her. Here. In the only place in my world that felt untouched by life’s bullshit.
She wore a dress that would’ve been at home in Wednesday Addams’ closet—black with a white collar, stopping halfway down her thighs. Her bare legs stretched before me. Long and pale and tempting.
