Monster in His Eyes

by J. M. Darhower

  So many things wrong, so why do those words feel so right?

  Marry me.

  He didn't ask.

  It's not a question.

  He knows.

  He fucking knows me.

  My voice betrays me when I try to speak. My lips part, but nothing comes out besides a shaky exhale. Naz stares at me, a smile slowly spreading across his face, flashing those deep dimples. He holds the ring out, cocking an eyebrow.

  I extend my hand across the table, trembling as he slips it on my finger.

  I let out a squeak before stammering incoherently, but my words are cut off when he stands and leans across the table, silencing me with a kiss. I kiss him back as he lets go of my hands, and I reach up, wrapping my arms around his neck. It's a fiery kiss, full of all of Naz's passion. It vibrates through my body, throttling my soul, his lips, and skin, and words forever altering me.

  How could I ever deny something so all consuming? How could I say no to someone who means so much to me? It's crazy, and stupid, and utterly overwhelming, but how will I ever fly if I'm too terrified to take the first leap?

  "I will," I whisper against his mouth. "I'll marry you."

  The air is electric.

  I can feel it buzzing along my skin, the hair on my arms sticking straight up as the current flows through my body. Every centimeter of me tingles.

  The arena is loud… so loud I can hardly hear myself think. Thousands upon thousands of people cram the vast room, packed together in seats, screaming and stomping. The noise seems to pound through my skull, fueling the electricity. It's pandemonium.

  Naz leads me straight to the front row, surrounding a large boxing ring. As soon as we get there, I spot the two empty seats in the middle, most of the row filled with familiar faces. Naz ushers me to one, and I nervously sit down beside the girl I'd met last night—Brandy. She's leaning against Raymond, his arm draped around her, as he eyes us curiously, gaze shifting from me to Naz. "Vitale."

  "Ray."

  Raymond's eyes drift back to me once more, meeting mine, before scanning me. His gaze settles straight on the ring on my finger, like he knew to look for it. A laugh bursts from him as he shakes his head. "You did it."

  "Yes," Naz says. "Just a bit ago."

  "Did what?" Brandy asks. "What happened?"

  Raymond motions toward my hand, and I slip it onto the seat beside me, out of view, but I'm not fast enough. Brandy's eyes widen as she snatches ahold of my hand, holding it up. "No fucking way! You got engaged?"

  I can feel the heat rushing to my face. The entire row seems to silence as a dozen sets of eyes strain to look our way.

  "We did," Naz says.

  The silence is broken by quiet murmurs, a few congratulations, but even more shock. Brandy clutches my hand tightly, admiring the ring in the light, as male laughter cuts through the air. Naz tenses at the sound as it echoes from the guy who rubbed him the wrong way last night.

  "Never thought I'd see the day," the guy says. "Vitale tying the knot again."

  My expression falls at those words.

  Vitale tying the knot again.

  Again.

  The others fall silent once more, looking away. I turn to Naz, confused, and see he's staring straight ahead at the ring, not a hint of emotion on his face. He's a stone cold statue. It's like he hadn't heard… he's here, but he's gone.

  "Strike three," Raymond mutters, the words barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "You're out."

  Naz slouches back in his seat after a moment, throwing his arm over my shoulder and pulling me toward him. I have a million questions (like what the fuck did he mean by again?) but I know now's not the time to ask that. Naz presses a kiss to the top of my head and says not a word as the arena erupts in chaos.

  I don't know what's going on—who's who or what's what—but everyone around us is immersed in our surroundings. Two men make their way to the ring, music blaring as people scream. One's in blue shorts, the other in red, with names I can't pronounce and faces I don't recognize.

  The brutality right from the ding of the bell is alarming. I sit still in my seat, in Naz's arms, as the men in the ring ferociously pound on each other, round after round, very little letting up. We're so close I can see the blood, sweat, and tears, hear the sickening blows, the grunts and pants and cries. It's barbaric.

  I'm appalled.

  A quick glance at Naz tells me he's enthralled.

  He watches the fight with gross fascination. The others around us cheer and jeer, screaming and jumping up out of their seats, but Naz just sits there, watching attentively, his thumb absently stroking my arm.

  The fighters seem to be equally matched as they go toe-to-toe. Naz squeezes me tighter to him after a few rounds. "Who are you pulling for?"

  "Blue shorts guy."

  "Blue shorts guy," he echoes with a laugh. "Is there a reason?"

  There is, but I'm not going to admit it. The guy with the blue shorts has a design shaved into his hair on the side of his head. It's fascinating.

  Instead, I shrug. I don't really care who wins.

  The fight goes on and on. Every punch sends the crowd reeling. I hear their frenzied yells, feel it vibrating the floor beneath my feet, rocking the air around me. Naz doesn't say anything else, watching, his expression darkening as he stares into the ring. During the last round, the room erupts in commotion when red shorts hits blue so hard I hear the crack and feel the thump as he hits the ground.

  He's out cold.

  It's over. Half the arena cheers, while a low thrum of boos seems to underlay the celebration. Naz finally pulls his eyes away from the ring as I frown. "Guess red shorts won."

  "Guess so," he says. "Good thing, too."

  "Why?"

  "Because I had a quarter of a million riding on him."

  I gape at him as he stands up. He offers me his hand, and I take it. We don't say goodbye, don't hang around to celebrate, don't even wait for the official announcement of the winner. We leave the arena, heading back into the casino, and make our way back up to the penthouses.

  I let him dwell in silence during the journey, but once we're back in the suite, I can't take it anymore. My head is a frantic jumble of thoughts, puzzle pieces I can't quite fit together.

  He turns to me right inside the door, his expression serious. It's dark, the light so dim he looks like little more than an eerie shadowy form. I can barely make out his eyes. I want to ask him questions, but the words are intimidated.

  He knows me, though.

  I know he does.

  "I was married once," he says quietly, unprompted, answering what I long to ask. "It was a long time ago—a long, long time ago. Feels like forever, like another lifetime. I was a different person then, a different man. I didn't have much, but I had her… and then I didn't have her anymore."

  My feelings are at odds with each other. I'm not sure what to say. "What happened?"

  "I told you what happened," he says, and as soon as I hear those words, I know. He lost his family. "She was only eighteen. She didn't deserve what happened to her. She should've survived… they should've survived."

  "They?"

  He hesitates for a moment, as if maybe he's not going to answer, but the response finally leaves his lips in a whisper. "She was pregnant."

  I can't breathe again, and it's not from a hand around my throat. It's the lump of emotion that I can't swallow down that blocks the air from entering my lungs. A baby.

  He lets out an exaggerated sigh. "They died, and I survived. I was younger than you are right now… young and dumb, didn't think these things could ever happen to me. But I'm not naïve anymore, Karissa. I'm not going to lose another. I'm not going to make those mistakes again."

  "Who could do such a thing?"

  "A coward," he says. "A fool. He deserved to be punished, but the authorities let him walk away. They let him go. So I vowed someday I'd make him pay."

  "Have you?" I ask quietly.

  "No," he says, taking a
step toward me. "Not yet."

  I can see him better now that he's closer, can see the sadness lurking in his eyes. I don't think twice before reaching out and cupping his cheek, feeling the coarse, bristly hair against my palm. Naz doesn't like to be touched much… he prefers to do the touching, to be the one in control, even if it's only for show. I may not know everything about his history, but that is something I do know. It's something I've learned being with him.

  So I expect him to pull away, to grasp ahold of my hand, to move from my reach or divert my attention, but instead he just stands there, staring down at me, letting my fingertips trail along his jawline and explore his face.

  "I won't let it happen again," he repeats. "You're special to me, Karissa. I didn't expect you to be."

  "What did you expect?"

  "I don't know what I expected," he says, "but I didn't expect your innocence."

  "I'm not that innocent."

  His expression softens. "You're a cute little kitten."

  I roll my eyes. "I am not."

  "You are," he says. "You may growl, and hiss, and meow, and maybe sometimes you bring out those claws, but I know how to make you purr. I'm the king of the jungle. I'm the predator."

  "Does that make me your prey?"

  He shakes his head. "That makes you my queen."

  I caress his face before threading my fingers through his hair. "You make me feel like one."

  He says nothing in response, and I say nothing else, as he finally pulls my hands away from him, linking his fingers with mine to pull me toward the stairs. He takes me up to the second floor, to the master bedroom, where he slowly, and carefully, strips me out of my clothes. I nervously stand in front of him naked as his eyes scan my body.

  After a moment, he turns and strides away.

  My brow furrows. I hear him in the closet, and he returns holding one of his neckties. I stand still as he walks around behind me. I'm waiting for him to try to tie my wrists together again, thinking maybe he'll go for the ankles, even preparing for him to wrap it around my neck, but I let out a soft gasp when he slips it around my eyes instead. The room is cloaked in darkness as he blindfolds me, tying it securely in place.

  A yelp escapes my throat when I'm suddenly jolted, lifted up in the air. Naz picks me up, cradling me in his arms, and I blindly reach for him, clinging to him. He lays me down on the bed, whispering for me to relax.

  My instinct is to fight it, to tense up. It's alarming being in the dark. I try to relax, but my body is coiled like a spring. Every touch is like a jolt, the sensations heightened from the anticipation.

  Closing my eyes, succumbing to the blackness, I lay there as he has his way with me. He kisses and caresses every inch of skin, bringing me to the brink again and again. He's slow and gentle, sweet and genuine, as he whispers how much he loves me when he makes love to me.

  I paw at him, clinging to him, kissing and nipping at whatever skin my mouth can reach. I have no idea if it's his chest, his chin, or his cheek. It doesn't matter, though. It's him, and he's everything.

  Every part of him.

  It goes on and on until we're both sweaty and satiated. Naz pulls the blindfold from my eyes as he hovers on top of me, still deep inside of me. I blink away the darkness, adjusting to the dim lighting of the room, and watch as his lips curve. "You're mine forever," he whispers.

  I return his smile. "I'm yours."

  "Never forget it."

  "I won't."

  He pulls out of me, pulling me to him in the bed. It doesn't take long for sleep to pull me away from him.

  I sleep deeply, waking up in the middle of the night to find myself alone in the bed. I call out his name but get no answer. His clothes are gone from the bedroom floor, his shoes aren't here, and neither is his wallet.

  He's not in the suite anymore.

  I wander between rooms for a bit before making my way back to the bedroom. I wrap myself up in the sheets, snatching Naz's pillow from his side of the bed. It's cool to the touch, smelling a lot like him.

  I drift off again. Something jolts me awake much later, sunshine streaming through the window, bathing the bed in a warm glow. Opening my eyes, I see Naz when he steps into the bedroom. Yesterday's clothes hang from his frame, slightly disheveled.

  He looks exhausted.

  "Hey," I mumble, sitting up in bed and clutching the sheet around me.

  He pulls off his shirt. "Good morning."

  Naz strips right in front of me and says nothing else before disappearing from the room. The faint sound of water running reaches my ears after a moment, the shower starting up in the bathroom. Curious, I slip out of bed and join him.

  Naz stands under the spray in the shower, head tilted back and eyes closed as the water pelts him from all angles. I stop just outside the reach of the spray, taking a moment to admire him. Water runs down his strong frame as steam surrounds him like a fog. His chiseled jawline accents a stern expression. Despite his exhaustion, his arousal is obvious, his cock hard and twitching like he could easily go twelve rounds with me, right here, right now.

  Something tells me, from the look in his eyes when he looks over at me, that a bout with him today would be as ruthless as the brutality we witnessed in the boxing ring.

  He shifts position, motioning with his head for me to come closer. I step under the spray, flinching from the scalding water, as he wraps his arms around me.

  "Where'd you go last night?" I ask quietly.

  "Work," he says. "Had something to take care of."

  He reaches past me to grab some shampoo. It's the little bottle provided by the hotel, but I can tell it's not the cheap shit I've been subjected to at the hole-in-the-wall places I stayed in over the years in between houses with my mother.

  He squeezes some onto his palm before setting it aside. I start to step away from him, not wanting to get in his way of showering, when he runs his hands through my hair. I freeze, stalled in place by the sensation, as he lathers the shampoo up in my hair. His touch is firm, sending tingles down my spine, as he massages my scalp. My eyes drift closed, a soft moan escaping my lips.

  He doesn't stop there. I can do nothing but stand there as the man washes me from head to toe, lathering soap on every inch of my body before rinsing it away. He says not a word, doesn't even look me in the eyes again until he's finished. His eyes trail along my skin once I'm clean, lingering on the fading bruises along my neck. Reaching up, he brushes his fingertips along them, but he still makes no comment.

  Instead, he turns away.

  "Our plane leaves in two hours," he says. "We'll have to head out soon."

  It feels oddly like a brusque dismissal, his stance doing nothing to warm his words. I mumble, "okay," under my breath as I head out of the shower, grabbing a towel on my way. I dry off, wrapping it around me, as I go back into the bedroom.

  My eyes are drawn to his clothes on the floor, but I leave them there, focusing my attention on my own things. I dress quickly and pack, throwing my hair into a ponytail before making my way down to the first floor of the suite.

  I can hear the shower turn off, hear Naz going about his business upstairs, as I walk to the vast windows and gaze out. We've been here for two days, yet it feels like we just arrived hours ago. There's so much I haven't done, so much I haven't seen, parts of the suite I haven't even ventured to yet.

  Naz comes down, dressed back in a black suit. He's distracted as we check out, distracted on the drive to the airport in the limo. The others are already there, on the tarmac, belongings being loaded onto the plane when we make it that far. Naz bypasses them all, guiding me straight onto the plane.

  We sit in the same seats as before.

  The others take their same seats, too.

  They're more subdued today, nobody saying much of anything as we settle in for the trip home. I glance around at their faces, my gaze settling on the seat across from me.

  Empty.

  We're coming home with one less person than we went to Vegas wi
th.

  You cannot step in the same river twice.

  The first day of philosophy class, Professor Santino stood at the front of the classroom and uttered those words, quoting the philosopher Heraclitus. He said it with such conviction, and it made so much sense in theory, until he asked us to explain what it meant.

  I didn’t raise my hand.

  There were a few responses, but they always went along two lines—either it's because you've changed, or it's because the river has. The debate lasted nearly the entire hour. At the end of the class, someone asked Santino to tell us which side was right.

  The man shrugged a shoulder, absently tapping his pointer stick against the hard floor. “Nobody knows. Maybe it's both.”

  Standing in my dorm room so many months later, surrounded by all of my things, jet-legged and feeling out of place, I think I finally understand it. I'm not the same person who left here forty-eight hours ago.

  And when Melody bursts in, wide-eyed and frantic, I seem to instinctively know: this place isn't the same, either. Minutes, hours, days passed... time that changed me, time I can never get back or experience here. Time I wasn't around for.

  Lost time.

  It changes everything.

  Melody's breathing hard, staring at me like a mad woman. I freeze in front of my closet, a stack of hangers in my hand as I prepare to pack them in a cardboard box. Her eyes hold secrets she's desperate to spill, but I can tell from her expression they might not be ones I want to hear.

  "Have you heard?" she asks, her eyes flickering toward my desk, where Naz quietly stacks up my books, his back to us.

  "What?"

  "Satan," she says, shutting the door. "He's dead!"

  I blink rapidly. "Huh?"

  "Satan," she says again. "Santino! He's dead!"

  My stomach sinks, everything inside of me coiling, barely holding the swell of nausea down. I have a million questions, but all that sputters out are mere syllables. "What? When? How?"