Huge mistake.

Something in my right shoulder pops and pain explodes in my muscles. I groan and bite down on my lower lip to stifle the sound.

Pain is temporary. Pain is temporary.

Mom’s words echo in my head like a mantra.

I blink twice. I remember having a mother.

That’s the first thing I’ve remembered since waking up in this sterilized room.

“Look who returned to the world of the living.”

My movements freeze as that same voice echoes around me. I forgot he was still in the room in the first place.

I don’t hear the sound of footsteps or feel him approaching.

The attack is silent and fast. One moment I’m thinking the nightmare is a reality, and the next, a broad, tall figure looms over my bed.

You know that color a tropical forest has when it’s raining heavily? That’s the color of his eyes. Dark green, almost black.

Harsh.

Emotionless.

There’s something about those eyes that pushes me into a high-alert mode.

I want to run.

I want to hide.

But I can’t. Something tells me it’s not only because of my physical injuries. I’m unable to run from him.

He’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and a black leather jacket along with dark jeans. His hair is the color of a moonless night with a bluish hue. It’s short on the sides and long enough in the middle to be tousled.

The straight, chiseled jawline and the thick brows give him a fatally attractive edge—the kind serial killers have.

His broad shoulders and lean waist increase the intimidation of his already dark exterior tenfold.

Well, the physique is understandable. After all, he’s an athlete who slaves at the gym and practices constantly.

Wait—how do I know that?

His upper lip lifts in a cruel smirk as if he injected all the shadows in it. “I knew you would come back.”

Unlike the nurse, he doesn’t seem relieved about that. No. He’s like a hunter who’s closely observing his prey right before the attack.

A lightning strike right before the thunder.

The click of a gun right before the shot.

Suddenly, I wish I’d surrendered to the darkness of unconsciousness. That type of darkness is better than this one.

Don’t they say some monsters are better than others?

His hand reaches out for me and I instinctively push against the pillow. Pain explodes in my head and my upper shoulder, but I don’t stop.

I need to stay away from his hold.

Run.

Run!

My instinct has caught up with my slow brain and is now shouting at me to get the hell out of here.

In my condition, it’s impossible to move a muscle, let alone run.

I glance behind me at the emergency call button. Maybe if I ask the kind nurse, she can remove him from my side. Maybe someone can help me.

Because I need help right now.

I can feel it in my bones and taste it on my tongue.

He releases a tsking sound that gets past my ears and embeds under my skin. “No one will save you. It’s just you and me.”

Like doom coming closer, his hand reaches for me, and he clutches my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

It’s a soft touch, so soft it shocks my warm skin. The emotionless look in his dark eyes is anything but gentle, though. A sadistic smirk lifts the corner of his lips.

A shudder emerges from deep within my soul.

It’s the look of someone out to destroy, to maim and mutilate—and he’ll do it all with a smile on his face.

“L-let me go.” It’s the pleading of the dying, my voice. The last murmur of the dead.

His grip tightens on my jaw until I wince. “That’s not how it works. Remember the rules?”

“W-what rules?”

“Break willingly and I might let you collect the pieces.”

My heart thunders until the machines erupt with sound. “What—”

My words are cut off when he leans closer until his breath tickles along my skin. Another involuntary shudder slides down my spine, and goosebumps form along my limbs.

I don’t know if it’s because of fear, or if it’s something else.

This close, he’s even more fatally gorgeous and dangerous. A flicker of connection grips hold of me.

I know him from somewhere, but where?

He runs his tongue from under my eye to the corner of my lip. Something violent and out of control takes over my body, and more goosebumps erupt.

I stare at him with trembling lips.

“Welcome back to your custom-made hell, monster.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart does this weird thing, beating in and out of sync, as if it doesn’t know what to do.

There’s so much sadism in his eyes.

So much…grudge.

The way he watches me intently with those rainy forest eyes is close to being cut open and left for dead.

Maybe I already died and crossed over to hell, and this is my torturer.

Otherwise, why the hell is he calling me a monster when I don’t know him?

No—I don’t remember him. I most definitely know him from somewhere.

But where?

According to what the nurse said, he’s my fiancé. For some reason, that sounds wrong.

He’s not my fiancé. He’s someone more…sinister.

I try to lift my head. Pain shoots down my nape and snaps to the front.

Whimpers leave my lips as I try to tamp down the agony. I bite my lower lip to keep the sound from escaping.

No one will witness my weakness, least of all this stranger.

He watches me intently, his face impassive other than a slight twitch in his upper lip.

Wait…

I meet his dispassionate gaze and focus on the slight curve in his lips. My brain might be slow in keeping up, but I recognize that look.

It’s pleasure, sadistic and twisted.

He’s enjoying seeing me hurt. He’s watching my aching shoulders and the trembling of my lips like he’s in a competition and they’re his prize.

He likes my weakness and my pain.

He likes my suffering.

Help.

Someone help me.

A voice from my dreams—or nightmares—whispers in my head. That voice is so similar to mine.

Who the hell did I ask for help from before? I don’t like asking for help. I might not know my name or my damn age, but I know I don’t like showing vulnerability that way.

The door hisses open, cutting off my connection with the asshole who called me a monster. He releases my chin and steps back as if he wasn’t suffocating me not two seconds ago.

The kind nurse from earlier returns with a skinny, black doctor who’s wearing frameless glasses.

The asshole clutches my wrist and sits by my side, holding my hand in his. Shock ripples through me at how soft, yet cold his touch feels.

How can a touch be so gentle and yet so…cold?

It’s like I’m being held by a freezer.

His attention falls on the doctor and he smiles. There’s something curious about that smile. It’s not exactly fake, but it’s…dead. Lifeless, just like his touch.

“Dr. Anderson.” He speaks in such a polite, calm way. It’s completely different from the asshole from earlier. “How is my fiancée doing?”

I stare between him and his hold on my hand. No, I can’t be the fiancée in this tale. This fucking jerk can’t be my future husband. I’d really feel sorry for myself and my poor choices if that were the case.