Page 50 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He shivers. “Is it safe?”

“More or less.” I tilt my head. “For you, it will be.”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I’m scared of them.”

“I know.” He looks at the floor, then at the snake again. “Will she bite?”

“She’ll bite the membrane of the collection cup.”

He lets out a nervous laugh and mumbles, “Could you not say it like that?”

“Say it like what?”

“Like… I don’t know, ignore me.”

I consider him, the flush rising on his cheeks, the way his eyes linger on my hands. I sit him on a stool at one end of the table, near enough to see the entire process but far enough that his knees won’t buckle and send him sprawling into a pit viper.

I wash my hands, glove up, and ensure everything is still as ready as I had it. It is.

Ryan’s breathing picks up as I unlock the enclosure. The hiss of the negative-pressure seal breaking is, I imagine, worse than the snake itself. I remove Estelle with a gentle hook and let her coil along my forearm, supporting her with practiced steadiness. She is restless, but not defensive—her tongue flicks at the air, searching for meaning. Ryan’s eyes are wide as moons.

“Her venom is primarily hemotoxic,” I say, not looking away from Estelle, but aware that Ryan clings to every word. “It destroys tissue and blood cells, causes massive internal bleeding, and intense pain.”

He gulps. “Jesus.”

“There are some neurotoxic elements, also.”

He is very still.

I tease Estelle’s head gently into the cone of the extraction cup. Her fangs slide forward, a glisten of pale needle against the glass. I press her jaws, and the venom beads—then streams—through the membrane, a few golden drops at first, then a syrupy thread. The entire process takes less than a minute.

Ryan’s lips part. He looks faintly ill, but he cannot look away.

I release Estelle back into her enclosure, lock it, and remove my gloves. The venom sits in the cup, viscous and beautiful.

Ryan swallows hard. “What do you… do with it?”

I cap the sample. “Study it. Test new antivenoms. Explore applications.”

His eyes trace the line of my neck, the bare skin at my collar. “You’re good at handling dangerous things.”

I turn, and our eyes meet through the haze of warmth and adrenaline. The tension between us is a living thing now—Ryan’s fear and fascination have braided together into something nearly electric. I set the cup down and step into his space.

I watch Ryan’s throat work as he forces down his fear, and I am struck by how beautifully the sensation of terror fits him, how it sharpens his features and makes him more alive than ever. He is breathing quickly, almost on the verge of panting, and his hands clench the edge of the stainless worktable—knuckles white, tendons standing out along the back of his hands. I remember how those hands felt only two nights before, digging into my shoulders, raking down my ribs, desperate to keep from being unmoored.

I crowd into his space, placing one palm flat against the table, pinning his right hand under mine. I feel each tremor in his fingers, and I press down.

“Your heart is racing,” I say, placing my other hand lightly over his chest, just above the exposed band of flesh where his shirt doesn’t quite meet his shorts. I splay my fingers and feel the thrum beneath; it’s addictive. “You are frightened.”

He tries to scoff, but the sound catches. “Yeah, well. You literally just milked venom out of a snake, Camille. I think I get a pass for having a normal reaction.”

He wants to look away, but I won’t let him. I move my thumb in a slow circle at the base of his throat, just above his pulse, and whisper, “But you are not running.”

He flinches, but only a little. “It’s not the snakes I’m scared of right now,” he admits, and then, with a self-deprecating laugh, “Which is fucked up. In case you wondered.”

I feel his gaze skitter across my mouth, then down to my hand, and then back to the table where the venom sample sits, molten gold under the recessed lights. “That can kill me?”

“It could,” I hum.