Monster in His Eyes (Monster in His Eyes 1)

He didn't look happy when I swiped it from my friend.

I glance around as I sip it, moving through the crowd, seeking out the frilly blue prom dress, but it's nowhere to be seen. She's not on the dance floor, not at the bar, and not in line for the bathroom. The air is thick and stuffy, and I feel light-headed, like I'm not getting enough oxygen. Sighing, I chug the rest of the drink and toss the cup as I make my way to the exit, moving past people to push my way outside.

I take a deep breath as soon as I'm out on the sidewalk, the night air so cold it feels like tiny little needles jabbing my skin as my body adjusts to the abrupt change in temperature. It's late… one, maybe two in the morning from what I can tell, the streets still alive but the line to get inside down to only a few.

Melody's not out here, either.

The bouncer eyes me peculiarly. I step away from the door, away from him, as I reach into my bra to grab my phone to call Melody. It slips from my hand, along with my ID, both falling to the ground. I hold my breath as the phone hits the sidewalk with a loud crack.

"No, no, no," I chant, crouching down to snatch it back up. I glance at the screen, grimacing at the long jagged scratch right down the middle of it. "Oh, fuck."

Frowning, I reach for my ID, but before I can grab it someone else gets to it first. Brow furrowing, I look up, expecting it to be the nosey bouncer.

What I see nearly knocks me on my ass.

It's him.

Him, all six-feet and some change of his glorious frame, still clad in his all black suit, looking exactly as he had hours ago. I should be alarmed, but I only feel a slight tingle trickle down my spine, a vague sense of awareness that in a city of nearly two million people, the odds of ever running into him twice are slim to none, much less twice in one day.

Maybe it's fate.

Or maybe I'm in trouble…

He stands there, glancing at my ID, before his blue eyes shift to me. I stand up again, swaying, my head swimming, everything around me delayed. It's hard to think straight, the alcohol kicking in. I've been drunk before, but this… this isn't the drunk I'm used to. I'm dizzy, and sweaty, and damn if I don't feel like I might puke.

Please don't puke.

"That's a terrible picture," I mutter as his eyes shift once more from me to the ID. He gazes at it for a moment—a moment that feels like an eternity as I try not to pass out on the sidewalk—before he holds it out to me.

"There's nothing wrong with the picture, Karissa."

I take the ID to slip it back away as the alarm finally sinks in. "How do you--?" I shake my head, the motion making me even woozier. My vision blacks out for a second, a second where I fear it won't come back. "How do you know my name?"

My voice comes out as a strained croak, and although my vision's blurred, I see his forehead crease with confusion. "It's on your license."

Oh. I mean to say it out loud, but I can't seem to get my lips to work anymore. I blink rapidly, trying to take a deep breath, but it's senseless. No amount of air will keep me afloat when I'm already falling. My knees give out, everything fading to blackness.

BAM

Musk.

It surrounds me, infiltrating my senses as I creep toward consciousness. It smells earthy, woodsy and aquatic, all male with just a hint of sweetness. It seems to waft around me in a slight breeze I can feel against my skin, warm, and fragrant, and…

Oh God, it's cologne.

My eyes drift open when that thought hits me, the scent stronger as I come around. Blinking a few times, I stare up at a foreign white ceiling. A fan spins round and round right above me, the setting so low my eyes can follow the blades, the air blowing against my face. The room is dim, faint light streaming through a window.

Close to dawn, I gather, from the soft orange glow that bathes part of the floor.

Or is it dusk?

My heart races in my chest, each beat painful, as it seems to reverberate through my body. I'm achy, my head pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat. Panic bubbles in my gut that I try to ignore, to push back, but it's no use. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here, or how long I've been in this place. I'm confused, sore, disoriented...

And my bladder feels like it's about to explode.

Slowly, I sit up in the bed. It's fit for a king—way bigger than any bed I've ever owned. The mattress feels like fluffy clouds and the intoxicating scent clings to the pillows and the sheets. Everything is bright white, crisp and clean, and I'd think it was a hotel room, with how impersonal it feels, if it wasn't for the fact that there's no goddamn bathroom in the vicinity.

I strain my ears to hear, but it's dead silent, except for the soft sound of air swishing from the fan. My panic eases a little when I see I'm still fully dressed, wearing the god-awful eighties clothes from last night.

That was last night, right?

As I contemplate what to do, I hear footsteps off in the distance, calculated and exaggerated as they grow near. I hold my breath when the knob across the room turns, the door opening.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

What have I gotten myself into?

The moment I see him, memories start to trickle in. The bar, dancing, drinking, stepping outside as I search for Melody but somehow find him there instead. I remember looking at him, talking to him, and then there's nothing.

I'm drawing a blank.

He's wearing the exact same thing as last time I saw him, though, having still not changed.

Or maybe black suits are all he owns.

He hesitates in the doorway when he sees me sitting up, his hand still grasping the knob, but after a moment he lets go of it and takes a few steps toward me. Instinctively, I grab the blanket and pull it up, shielding myself, despite the fact that I'm still clothed.

The act makes him hesitate a second time. He pauses, and stares, but he doesn't speak.

I'm not sure what to do, or say, or how I should feel or even what to fucking think, so I just stare back. Awkward.

After a moment the corner of his lip twitches, revealing the deep dimple. "You're awake."

"I am."

Ugh, my voice sounds like sandpaper and feels just as raw.

"I was worried," he says. "You've been out for a while."

"Where is this?" I glance around the room anxiously. "Where are we?"

"My place."

His place. Oh, God… "How did I—?"

"You were drugged."

Those words stall me as my stomach sinks. I gape at him. Drugged? I was drugged? That panic surfaces again so quickly that I can feel it viciously rising, bile burning my throat. "You drugged me?"

His expression shifts, all amusement dying away at my question. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing, his nostrils flaring as he regards me with an anger that makes my blood run cold. "I did nothing to you."