Page 19 of Toxic Kiss

Operation Wrecked Rockstar isn’t just in motion…it’s all-out war. And Cyrus Vale has no idea what’s coming. He burned me once, but now I’m the fire.

chapter

eight

“You can’t outrun what’s inside you.” – Cyrus

CYRUS

The punching bag swings on its chain, jerking back like it’s trying to escape. Sweat drips from my jaw and splashes against the hardwood. Left. Right. Hook. Jab. Rhythmic. Ruthless. Probably wrong. My movements are sluggish. My form is shit. My breathing is worse. But the pain in my knuckles, the ache in my ribs, and the fire in my lungs, that is real. That’s mine, and it’s perfect. That I can control.

Unlike everything else.

My phone buzzes on the bench. I step toward it and glance down. Another barrage from Declan.

Declan: Are you out of your mind?

Declan: We need to fix this, Cy.

Declan: You just handed Malone a goldmine of bad press and jokes at your expense for months.

Declan: You need to apologize.

Declan: I know you’re getting my texts.

Declan: CALL ME! NOW!!!!!

I won’t. The screen dims before I can read the rest. It doesn’t matter. I already know what they say. The headlines are worse.

HAS VENOMOUS LOST ITS BITE? OR JUST SUCCUMBED TO THEIR OWN POISON?

Malone called me poison. Maybe he isn’t wrong.

And Haven…fuck.

I shouldn’t have said what I did. I knew the second it left my mouth I’d gone way too far.

But if it keeps her away, maybe it’s better. I’m a goddamn disaster, and she doesn’t need to be anywhere near my destruction.

The gym is dark except for one dimmed overhead light and the glow of my phone screen as more angry texts arrive. The penthouse workout space is supposed to be boutique luxury. Mirrors on three walls, a rack of dumbbells, a treadmill, a spin bike, and a punching bag bolted to the ceiling. I call it a prison with Wi-Fi.

I remember how awed I was the first time I stepped foot in a place like this. Now? I’d trade the luxury for the middle of nowhere, where no one knows my name.

My phone vibrates again, sounding like an angry wasp. Let him stew. Let them all stew. My fist connects again, the bag thudding into the wall behind it. I should ice my shoulder. Should hydrate. Should do a lot of shit. But if I start listing my mistakes, I’ll need another lifetime.

“Poison,” I mutter, slamming the bag again. “Fuckin’ original. Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

Footsteps echo along the hallway. I don’t bother to turn around.

It’s Eren. I can tell even before he speaks. It’s like he wanders around with a calming aura.

“You planning on putting that thing through the wall?”

I huff and stop the bag’s momentum before grabbing a towel from the cupboard.

“Can’t sleep,” I drawl.

“Clearly. And now the thumping is keeping me up.” Eren walks in slowly, holding two bottles of water. He tosses one my way.