II

When Turner regained consciousness, his eyes were greeted by the sight of a whimsical nodding monkey. Perched in a sunbeam on the polished wooden floor, this toy possessed a small solar cell that caused it to sway gently from side to side. Despite his throbbing headache, Turner's college partying days had equipped him with the ability to discern his current predicament. Clearly, he had indulged in copious amounts of alcohol, leading to his present state of slumber on an unfamiliar floor. Closing his eyes, he strained to recollect the events that had led him here, but his memory remained frustratingly blank. The last fragments he could recall involved trudging to work, engulfed in a cloud of misery. Ah, yes, his birthday was approaching. Had he ventured out and succumbed to a night of excessive revelry?

Cracking open an eyelid, Turner anticipated blurred vision, yet the pain from the light proved mercifully brief. Now came the crucial test of his condition: attempting to rise from his current position.

Drawing a cautious breath, he gingerly moved his arm, half-expecting a wave of nausea that mercifully never arrived. So far, so good. Breathe, move, breathe, move. With painstaking deliberation, he slowly raised himself onto his hands and knees.

And then he noticed the bed. Any glimmer of relief that his hangover might be less severe than anticipated was promptly extinguished when his gaze fell upon the splotches of blood staining the pristine white sheets. Though most of it had dried, a few patches remained damp. However, the true horror lay beneath the sheet—a lifeless form.

"Oh, dear God," Turner whispered, his body trembling as he rose to his feet. The situation was beyond dire.

Unfathomably dire.

To compound matters, he stood naked, his body adorned with streaks of blood. Adding to the puzzle were faint scratches etched along both his arms and a healing bite mark on his thigh.

But it wasn't confined to the bed—the blood had splattered across the floor, ascended the windowsill, and scattered across the pale blue walls.

Surveying the room, its feminine ambiance apparent from the furnishings—a grand queen-size bed, complemented by oak bedside tables, with discarded underwear and garments strewn about—Turner's gaze fell upon a desk nestled in the corner. Stacks of textbooks and a closed laptop adorned its surface. Nearby, a small wicker chair hosted a vibrant knitted blanket, lending a cozy touch to the room. Glancing out the window, he noted they were situated on the second floor, offering glimpses of partially overgrown gardens that merged into a dense forest.

Under different circumstances, the room would have emanated comfort and warmth. Alas, the blood tainted everything, even leaving its mark on the back of the door in sporadic droplets.

Drawing closer to the bed, an instinctual urge to lift the sheet overcame him, but he froze in his tracks. This was now a crime scene, right? One where he should refrain from tampering with any evidence or leaving his fingerprints behind. Though his memory remained an impenetrable void, he refused to believe he was capable of murder. Perhaps he had unwittingly imbibed a potent concoction, fallen prey to drugging, or worse—become the victim of an elaborate setup.

Why couldn't he remember? While he possessed knowledge of date-rape drugs and their memory-erasing effects, experiencing it firsthand was an entirely different ordeal.

Once more, he scrutinized the room, realizing there were no clothes for him—only remnants of shredded women's garments discarded on the floor.

"Damn it," he groaned, caught off guard as a voice from beneath the sheet unexpectedly interjected, "Yes, please!"

A haze of fragmented memories clouded his mind. He recalled encountering her on the bustling street, en route to his mundane work routine. But beyond that... what happened next?

Her body stirred, a crimson-stained sheet loosely draped around her torso, before she gracefully let it slip away, raising her arms above her head.

His gaze fixated upon her, consumed by a primal desire to claim her as his own. Yvonne, a name whispered within him, fueled his approval. With a scrutinizing glance, he admired her slender waist, flawless breasts, fiery red locks, and piercing green eyes.

The urge to pounce onto the bed, to envelop her in his embrace, surged through his veins. Yet, a bewildering thought emerged—she already belonged to him. He pondered the origin of this notion, perplexed.

"Cat got your tongue once more? How unfortunate. I was hoping you could put it to better use," Yvonne remarked, placing her hands on the bed, her provocative gaze beckoning him southward, stirring a fervent rush of blood.

"It seems you fancy that notion," she added, smirking and raising an eyebrow. Turner's hands involuntarily clasped his own excitement, his body stirring, as the chant to succumb to his desires grew louder.

But what the hell? He hardly knew her... and he couldn't recall the moments they had seemingly shared. Though the evidence lay before him, he couldn't recollect engaging in such intimate acts. A pang of regret pierced his thoughts—what a shame to have shared a bed with such an enticing woman, only to be robbed of the memories.

And then there was the matter of the blood... Did she indulge in peculiar fetishes, and had he willingly partaken?

Yvonne playfully kicked aside the sheet, her vibrant mane splayed across the pillow as she reclined on the bed. Turner's gaze traced the contours of her body—her alluring hips, her captivating thighs...

"Join me in bed, Turner, and I'll make you feel better," Yvonne whispered, her words laced with a seductive allure.

She shifted her legs, the tantalizing sound of skin brushing against skin, tempting him to leap onto the bed without restraint. He released his hands to his sides, realizing the futility of concealment. His arousal had solidified, unyielding, and two hands proved insufficient.

Wait a second... He glanced downward, his own body appearing unfamiliar. While he had endeavored to maintain some semblance of fitness since college, the sedentary nature of his programming job had taken its toll. Alongside Cullen and Linc, he subsisted on a diet of convenience, prioritizing work over culinary endeavors.

Gradually, the post-college years had witnessed a subtle accumulation of weight around his waistline, accompanied by a pale complexion.

Yet now, his abdomen revealed defined abs, as if the excess fat had melted away overnight. His thighs displayed newfound muscularity, and though he had heard that weight loss accentuated certain attributes, was this extent even possible?

"I seem to be experiencing some memory issues," Turner finally confessed, his gaze still captivated by the unexpected transformation even evident in his forearms.

"You truly don't remember? I knew memory loss was a potential consequence of embracing the untamed, but I suppose I never fully believed it," Yvonne divulged.

"Embracing the untamed?" he questioned, perplexed.