Morning After

I wake up choking on sunlight and regret.

My head pounds like someone is knocking from the inside, begging to be let out. The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat, and there’s a weight pressed against my ribs

No.

Not a weight.

An absence.

The other side of the bed is cold.

I blink at the ceiling. White. Smooth. Not mine.

I don’t own white ceilings.

I sit up too fast and the room tilts. A low curse slips out of me as I brace my palm against the mattress. The bedroom is large, minimal, and expensive in a quiet way. Dark wood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows half-covered by gauzy curtains. A black silk shirt—mine—lies discarded near the door.

I don’t remember taking it off.

That’s the first problem.

The second is when I look down.

There are scratches on my chest.

Not faint. Not accidental.

Four distinct marks drag from my collarbone down to my ribs. Red. Angry. Intimate.

My pulse spikes.

“What the hell,” I mutter.

I swing my legs over the bed and stand. My knees almost buckle. There’s a mirror across from me, tall and merciless. I force myself to look.

My lip is split.

There’s a bruise forming along my jaw.

And lower

More marks.

Bite marks.

Clear as ink on paper.

Heat creeps up my neck. Not embarrassment. Not exactly.

Confusion.

I try to remember.

Music. Loud. A private club downtown. Someone was laughing near my ear. A glass pressed into my hand.

Dark eyes.

That’s all I get.

Dark eyes watching me like I was something he’d already decided to own.

I drag a hand through my hair and wince when my fingers brush a tender spot near my temple.

I don’t black out.

I don’t lose control.

I don’t wake up in strange beds with strangers’ fingerprints carved into my skin.

My name is Adrian Vale. I built my reputation on control. Precision. Clean edges.

This

This is not clean.

I scan the room again.

No wallet on the dresser. No watch. My phone is gone.

A cold, creeping feeling starts in my stomach.

I stride to the door and yank it open.

Empty hallway. Plush carpet. Modern artwork lining the walls.

A hotel.

A high-end one.

I walk back into the room slowly, forcing myself to think.

Goal.

Step one: assess damage.

Step two: find whoever was in this bed with me.

Step three: make sure this doesn’t become leverage.

Because men like me don’t get the luxury of “wild nights.”

We get exposed.

Ruined.

Used.

I move toward the bathroom and flick on the light.

Big mistake.

The mirror over the sink reflects everything.

My body is a map of last night.

Scratches across my back. Finger-shaped bruises on my hips. A faint smear of lipstick near my collarbone

No.

Not lipstick.

Too dark.

I touch it.

It doesn’t smear.

Teeth.

My breath leaves me slowly.

This wasn’t gentle.

This wasn’t soft.

I was hungry.

And I can’t remember a second of it.

Anger starts to burn through the fog.

Not at the marks.

In the blank space in my head.

I grip the sink harder.

Think.

I remember leaning against the bar. I remember someone stepping into my space without asking permission.

“You look bored,” a voice had said.

Low. Smooth. Amused.

Male.

The memory sharpens just enough to sting.

I turn back toward the bedroom.

The sheets are black silk. There’s a faint scent in the air something clean but dark, like cedar and smoke.

I move to the nightstand.

Empty.

No note.

No receipt.

Nothing.

The other side of the bed is too neat.

Like whoever left made sure to erase themselves.

My jaw tightens.

I check the closet.

Empty.

Bathroom trash.

Empty.

Whoever he was, he didn’t leave a trace.

I walk back into the center of the room, chest rising faster now.

This wasn’t a random hookup.

I don’t do random things.

And I definitely don’t forget.

The anger sharpens into something colder.

I scan the floor more carefully this time.

There.

Near the edge of the bed.

A cufflink.

Silver. Minimal. Expensive.

Not mine.

I crouch and pick it up.

There’s an engraving on the back.

L.M.

My heart kicks harder.

Lucien.

The name hits me like I’ve known it before.

Lucien.

The dark eyes.

The slow smile that didn’t quite reach them.

“You don’t look like a man who enjoys losing control,” he’d said.

I’d smirked. “I don’t.”

He’d leaned closer.

“That’s what makes it interesting.”

The memory snaps into place so suddenly I stagger.

His hand at my throat.

Not squeezing.

Just resting there.

Testing.

“Relax,” he’d murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”

Take care of me.

My lip curls.

I drop the cufflink onto the dresser and laugh once, humorless.

“I’ve been scammed.”

The words echo in the quiet room.

Drugged?

Maybe.

Set up?

More likely.

No one targets a man like me without a reason.

I look back at the marks on my chest.

They don’t feel like violence.

They feel deliberate.

Possessive.

Which somehow makes it worse.

My phone is gone.

My wallet.

If there were photos

A sharp knock hits the door.

I freeze.

Another knock.

“Housekeeping.”

My mind races.

If this is a setup, then someone wants me disoriented. Exposed.

I grab the black silk shirt from the floor and pull it on, not bothering with buttons, then move toward the door.

I open it just enough to see.

A woman in uniform stands there, polite smile in place.

“Sir, checkout was requested early this morning. We’re here to prepare the suite.”

“Requested by who?” I ask evenly.

She glances at a tablet. “Your guest, Mr. Vale.”

My stomach drops.

“My guest?”

“Yes, sir. He handled the arrangements.”

He.

“Where is he now?”

Her smile falters slightly. “He departed at six a.m.”

Six.

I woke up at nine.

Three-hour gap.

“What name did he give?” I press.

She checks again.

“Lucien Moreau.”

The name settles into my bones like something inevitable.

Lucien.

I nod once. “Give me five minutes.”

She steps back, professional, and the door clicks shut.

Lucien Moreau.

The name tastes dangerous.

I move quickly now, scanning for anything else I missed.

Under the pillow

Nothing.

Inside the drawer

A single card.

Black.

No logo.

No number.

Just embossed letters.

You said you don’t lose control.

I stare at it.

My chest tightens, not with fear

With fury.

He planned this.

Every second.

The meeting at the bar. The drinks. The room is already booked in my name.

He studied me.

Anticipated me.

And then he left before I could even wake up and demand answers.

My gaze drifts back to the mirror one last time.

To the scratches.

The bruises.

The evidence of a night I can’t remember but my body clearly does.

Anger coils tighter.

But beneath it

Something else.

A flicker of heat.

Because despite the blank spaces… I remember the way his voice dipped when he said my name.

Like he already knew it belonged in his mouth.

I shove the card into my pocket.

Lucien Moreau wanted my attention?

He has it.

I button my shirt slowly, ignoring the sting across my skin.

He thinks he got the upper hand.

Thinks disappearing makes him powerful.

But power isn’t about vanishing.

It’s about who comes looking.

And I will find him.

I grab the cufflink from the dresser and close my fist around it.

Cold metal bites into my palm.

Lucien Moreau left before sunrise.

No goodbye.

No explanation.

No apology.

Just marks on my body and a challenge in my pocket.

I head for the door, pulse steadying into something sharp and focused.

Because one thing is certain

Lucien didn’t just walk away.

He ran.

And people only run when they know they’ve started something they can’t control.