Monster in His Eyes

by J. M. Darhower

  And fucks me.

  And fucks me.

  His grip is so strong I think I'll still feel it tomorrow, handprints embedded in my flesh in deep shades of black and blue, as he ravishes my body, obliterating my insides. I fight him, trying to drop my legs, each thrust painfully deep. I claw at his hand, pushing against his body, struggling in his grasp. My nails dig into his skin, leaving marks on his armor, drawing blood that doesn't faze him a bit.

  I seem to be more unnerved by it than him.

  No matter what I do he subdues me, so much stronger, so much tougher. I can't overpower him. I can't win. My frustration mounts at that realization until I ball my hands into fists and punch his chest with everything in me.

  I hit him so hard I hear it, hit him so hard my knuckles hurt. As soon as my fist connects, the force seems to ricochet through both of our bodies, tensing my muscles.

  Oh shit.

  He snatches my hand as he leans down to me, so close our noses touch. My heart races. I'm expecting venom. Instead, he startles me with a kiss.

  "That's it, sweetheart," he says against my lips. "Fight me before I fuck you to death."

  I think he might be capable of it, but I've gone too far to admit that out loud. I'm worked up, on emotional overload. "You're not man enough."

  He groans, kissing me again, his lips just as brutal as the rest of him. Jesus, he likes this. It unnerves me for a second. Sex with him is always passionate, but this? This is intense. He's in complete control of my body, but I can tell he's lost control of himself. This isn't Naz. This is the monster, fully unsheathed.

  This is Ignazio Vitale.

  He loves me. Still, I try to remember. I don't ever want to forget. But this man battering my body, the one clutching my throat, fucks me like he hates me, like my life is in his hands alone.

  Like he has no qualms ending me if he sees fit.

  It's treacherous.

  It's terrifying.

  So why am I enjoying it so much?

  "Oh God," I whisper, my voice strained, my vision blurring. I can feel the tears building and the pressure mounting… I feel like I'm about to explode beneath him. I'm a live wire, sparking everywhere he touches. It's electrifying. My hands find their way into his hair, gripping the locks, yanking on it. I don't know whether to push or pull, beg him to get away from me or give me even more.

  Closing my eyes, my back arches, thrusting my breasts against his chest as the convulsions violently rip through me. My voice escapes me in a shrill scream, strangled by his hand on my throat, but loud enough to make my ears ring. He's unaffected, though—doesn't slow down, doesn't take it easy.

  The orgasm tears it all away from me, taking my apprehension, my anxiety, and my will to fight. I drift away in a cloud of ecstasy, my mind gone, my body finally succumbing to him. I don't struggle anymore, even though he's still rough, even though he's physically asking for it.

  Oh God, he broke me.

  He broke me.

  But I had no idea broken could feel so good.

  Tears leak from the corner of my eyes, ones he kisses away as he whispers the word, "remember." I know I could get him to stop with a simple word, and maybe that's why I don't say it. I don't want him to stop. I want to be his. I want to be his everything. I want him to take me, and make me, and use me, and abuse me, because he thinks he has control and I know now that's what he craves. I want to play his game with him, because I know one mere syllable from my lips will stop him dead in his tracks, and if that's not real power, I don't know what is.

  Hours, or days. Minutes, or seconds. I don't know how long he keeps it up, how long he plays this game of his. I just remember existing in the moment until the world fades around me, sleep pulling me away.

  And then I'm roused awake.

  The room is eerily dark, bathed in a sort of neon glow, as the lights from the strip shine in through the window, the curtains drawn open. I sit up, wincing at the stab of pain. My body is sore and achy; I'm naked and grimy. I feel like I ran a marathon and collapsed straight into bed.

  I'm not even sure I can walk anymore.

  My fucking legs are numb.

  Across the room, bathed in green and gold light from the glow of the building, stands Naz, staring out the window, fully dressed.

  Did he even undress?

  He stands completely still, like he's a fixture of the room. The only sign of life is the rise and fall of his chest, subtle breathing, innate. He's not doing it. It's just happening.

  In fact, he's not doing anything.

  I thought he broke me in the moment, but I was wrong. I think he woke me up instead, like my life so far has been nothing but a monotone dream and he showed me what it's really like to open your eyes. I've never felt so alive. But broken is what I see when I look at him. It's like a thread was cut, something severed, and disconnecting the man I know from the body in front of me.

  The monster came out. I saw him. I played with him. I welcomed him inside of me, and I didn't push him away.

  I think, looking at Naz, that the monster decided to stay.

  "Naz?" I call out, but he doesn't react, like he didn't hear me. My voice drops lower, a concerned whisper. "Ignazio?"

  He moves.

  His head turns, his eyes regarding me from across the room. After one quick glance back out of the window, he strolls toward the bed. He doesn't speak, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he approaches. I see it when he gets closer, the tear in the fabric, the hints of blood streaked on the sleeves. I gape at it as he pulls his shirt off, seeing the deep gashes and claw marks raking down his strong arms.

  I'm alarmed. I think I might've hurt him more than he hurt me.

  He undresses in silence before climbing in bed beside me, shifting his body so he's on top of me. He nuzzles into my neck, settling between my thighs. Not a word spoken, he eases inside of me.

  The first few strokes are gentle, followed up by an uncomfortable deep one. I gasp, my voice strained as I cling to him and croak, "yellow."

  He slows his thrusts until he's barely moving, covering my body with his, making love to me. I feel him in every cell in my body, listening as he pants and moans into my neck, his warm breath fanning against my skin. He's usually quiet during sex, unless he's teasing me, but I hear him now… hear his shaky breaths and strained moans. I wrap my arms around him tightly, twirling the soft curls at his nape around my fingers. It's sweet, sweet... so fucking sweet... as he trails kisses along my jawline before pulling back enough to look down at me.

  He still says nothing, but the curve of his lips, the soft smile he offers in the darkness, brightens the air between us. It's beautiful. So beautiful.

  It's everything.

  He's everything.

  He finishes inside of me, still staring down at me, a look of ecstasy passing across his face that I marvel in. His lips part, eyelids drooping, as the softest whisper of a moan escapes in the form of my name. "Karissa."

  Afterward we lay there, me on my stomach beside him on the bed, the blanket draped around me. I'm half asleep, exhausted and content, when I feel his feather light touch on my back, his fingertips tickling as he caresses my skin. My eyes close, the sensation causing my toes to curl as I bite down on my bottom lip, forcing back a giggle.

  He's drawing something, or writing on me... what, I don't know. I try to follow the pattern, make sense of his movements, as he coats my flesh with goose bumps.

  "What are you doing?" I whisper, not at all surprised when he doesn't answer my question. He keeps drawing patterns for a few minutes, nearly lulling me to sleep, before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss between my shoulder blades. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me onto my side toward him, my back flat against his warm chest.

  "I was connecting the dots," he says quietly. "Your freckles are like stars. They tell a story, depending on how you connect them."

  I smile to myself as he takes my hand, linking our fingers together. "What did they tell you?"

  "They told me
you're beautiful," he says. "And I'm a lucky son of a bitch to have you all to myself."

  I stand in front of the long mirror, tugging on my dress, trying to situate it on my body. It feels tighter than I remember, showing more skin than I usually show. I'm all put together, my hair pinned up and makeup on, my lips the same blood red shade as my clothing.

  In this light, it makes my skin look as pale as porcelain.

  Picking up my powder compact, I brush some more light makeup on around my neck, nervously covering the faint black and blue hue. It doesn't hurt, and it doesn't much bother me, but I worry about others.

  I know how it looks.

  I know what everyone else will think.

  I'm lost in my thoughts, my mind drifting back to last night, when I catch glimpse of the form appearing in the doorway behind me. My attention is drawn to Naz's reflection in the mirror, and I'm momentarily staggered.

  I've never seen him so casual before.

  Dark, loose-fitting jeans and a belt, white shirt and a midnight blue blazer clad his toned body. He hasn't shaved, and maybe it's my imagination, but his hair looks more out of place than usual. As that thought passes through my mind, he runs a hand through the locks, confirming my suspicions.

  He's disheveled.

  It's sexy.

  So fucking sexy.

  But it's not what I'm used to. He always carries himself with an air of perfection, everything in order and under control. This man in front of me is organized chaos, what seeped through the cracks when his armor fractured.

  I stare at him for a moment, my nerves flaring. He was gone most of the day, leaving me to entertain myself. Not sure where he went, or why, but I was glad when he returned. Things feel so much colder when he's not around. "Ignazio."

  He strolls into the bathroom, gaze fixed on mine in the mirror. "Is there a reason you're calling me that?"

  "It's your name," I say as I put on my earrings. "It's what everyone else calls you."

  "They usually call me Vitale." He pauses behind me. "And you're not everyone else."

  He reaches around me, his hand coming to rest at the base of my throat as he gently brushes his thumb across the bruising on my neck. He says nothing, but the words are written in his deep dark eyes and the frown on his lips. I've never seen it from him before, but he looks almost remorseful.

  He doesn't apologize, though. He lets out a sigh, pressing his cheek to my hair as I relax back against him. I watch his reflection as he closes his eyes, holding me.

  It's peculiarly intimate.

  He looks so vulnerable.

  I stand still, just staring at him, falling more in love each passing second.

  "Come on, birthday girl," he says eventually. "The night awaits."

  Nineteen feels no different to me than eighteen. Not that I expected it to, but it's strange. It doesn't feel like my birthday. I guess every day is a special occasion when I'm with this man.

  Naz leads me down into the casino, holding my hand as we stroll along. I can't keep my eyes off of him, and he notices, laughing after a few minutes and nudging me. "What's up with you tonight?"

  "Nothing, I'm just... surprised."

  "By what?"

  "You," I say. "I'm used to the fancy suits."

  "Yeah, well, suits are for business."

  "And jeans are for what... pleasure?"

  He smiles. "Something like that, although clothing tends to be optional in that case."

  We're led back to the same area he gambled at the night before, to a vast courtyard surrounding an elaborate mansion. It looks like an Italian villa, like we were ripped straight out of Vegas and thrust into Under the Tuscan Sun. The scent of flowers with a hint of lemon clings to the air in the glass enclosed property. It's breathtaking.

  The evening sunshine feels nice on my face as we're seated out on the patio. It'll be dark soon, the lights already glowing on the building, but I'm enjoying what's left of the warmth while I can.

  Naz sits across from me, ordering for the both of us, requesting a bottle of wine. No one here questions it.

  Maybe nineteen is different.

  Maybe I look old enough to drink tonight.

  Or maybe he's just too intimidating to ever second-guess when he asks for something.

  We drink and eat, talk and laugh, the air surrounding the table relaxed. There are other people around, I'm sure, but I can't see any, nor do I hear them. We're tucked away into a secluded space, where nothing else seems to exist.

  "I've always dreamed about going to Italy," I say, leaning back in my chair as I glance around. I can feel the alcohol simmering in my bloodstream, relaxing my body and setting me at ease.

  His voice is quiet as he distractedly whispers, "I know."

  I almost ask how he could possibly know that, but it's pointless. What does this man not know? "Have you ever been?"

  He nods, taking a sip of his drink. "They did a decent job of recreating it, but nothing quite matches the real thing."

  "I bet it's like heaven."

  "It is," he says. "I'll take you someday."

  "To heaven?"

  He smiles. "Wherever you want to go."

  I can tell he means it, his voice genuine. "I couldn't ask you to do that."

  "I know," he says. "That's why I offered instead."

  Naz motions for the waiter when the man steps outside and tells him to bring us whatever's chocolate on the dessert menu. A few minutes later some kind of chocolaty something is placed on the table in front of me. I have no idea what it is, but it's creamy and rich, one of the greatest things I've ever tasted. I'm shoveling it into my mouth when Naz speaks quietly. "I'm in love with you, Karissa."

  I freeze with the spoon halfway to my mouth and peer across the table at him. "I love you, too."

  "No, I don't just love you," he says. "I'm in love with you."

  His voice is so earnest it paints my flesh with goose bumps. "Is there a difference?"

  "There is," he says. "When you love somebody, you want what's best for them… but when you're in love with them, you want them for yourself. And they're not always the same thing. Just because I want you, doesn't mean I'm the best thing for you… because I'm not. I know I'm not. It isn't easy to reconcile. Because I know I should let you go, should let you walk away from me right now, but I can't do it. I can't. I'm selfish, and I'm in love with you, and I want nothing more than to keep you for myself."

  "I don't want to walk away from you. I'm never going to."

  "Don't say that unless you mean it."

  "I swear it," I say. "I meant it when I asked you to stay that night, and I mean it now. I'm in love with you, too."

  "Do you ever think about the future?" he asks.

  "All the time."

  "What do you see?"

  "I'm not sure," I admit, swirling my spoon around in the chocolate whatever-it-is. "I'm not even sure what waits for me back in New York. If I don't have my scholarship, I don't even have school anymore."

  "Don't worry about that."

  "How can I not?" I ask. "I'm not sure about anything anymore… anything except for you, anyway. You're the only thing in my life that I'm sure about. I know I want you… need you. I know I love you. Nothing else really makes any sense anymore."

  "Don't say that unless—"

  "Unless I mean it," I mumble, cutting him off. "Believe me, I mean it."

  "Do you want to know what future I see? What I see for you?"

  I meet his eyes. "What?"

  "I see you having everything you've ever wanted," he says. "Everything you've ever dreamed of. Clothes, shoes, houses, cars… boats."

  I laugh. "Boats?"

  He shrugs. "You might want a boat, you know, take one down the canal in Venice when you visit Italy someday."

  "Okay, I'll give you that one," I say. "I don't really need all of that, though."

  "But you can still have it," he says. "Anything you want out of life. You can finish school and build a life however you want it to be. A fa
mily, children… whatever you want. I see it for you."

  I smile. "It sounds wonderful."

  "It can be," he says quietly. "God willing, it will be."

  "Does this life include you?"

  "Do you want it to?"

  "Of course. I'd give all that other stuff up if it meant I could just keep you."

  He stares at me in silence for a moment, not responding to what I've said, before slowly reaching into his coat. He pulls out a small velvet box, and every muscle inside of me seizes up at the sight of it. My heart stalls a beat before kick starting again, like its been shocked into action, frantically pounding against my rib cage.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  He wordlessly flips the box open, the last tiny bit of sunlight hitting the oval-shaped diamond dead center of the ring. I gape at it as it sparkles in the light. I don't know anything about jewelry, couldn't guess the carat to save my life, but I know enough to tell it's extravagant.

  He says nothing.

  I say nothing.

  He glances down at the box in his hand, pulling the ring from it after a moment, holding it up in front of him.

  There's no way he's doing what I think he's doing.

  There's just no way.

  His eyes lift to meet mine again, and I see the truth there, lurking in the darkness. "You really mean it?"

  I slowly nod. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't."

  This has to be a dream. It's a dream. I'm asleep, or in a coma. Maybe he choked me last night until I fell unconscious, or maybe I'm dead, or maybe he's just fucking with me. Maybe I'm mistaken.

  Maybe someone's playing a cruel joke.

  Something, anything… but there's just no way this is real. There's no way this means what I think it means, that he means what I think he means. There's no way he's about to say—

  "Marry me."

  Those two words suck the oxygen from the courtyard. My chest burns, my eyes blurring. I inhale sharply. I can't fucking breathe.

  Blinking rapidly, my gaze bounces between him and the ring. My brain is screaming in protest, shouting out everything that is wrong about this entire thing. The list is a mile long. I've known him only months. There's so much about him that's a mystery to me. I'm young, and maybe I'm naïve, and he's dark, and maybe he's a bit dangerous. I only vaguely know his history, and my mother doesn't even know he exists.