His eyes fascinated her. His mismatched eyes, his eyes that seemed to pierce her to her very core and leave her exposed and bare. His eyes, always staring, always looking at her, even when she couldn't see his gaze, she could feel it, a shiver down her back both cold and unnerving yet warm and enticing, sending pools of warmth flooding into her belly.

She dreamed of his eyes. She dreamed of his stares, his ever-present watching, like a hunter stalking its prey, just waiting, waiting for the chance to pounce, to capture, to devour.

And what if he caught her? Trapped her in his ice-blue gaze, advancing on her like a serpent, enthralling her and claiming her as his own? Would she resist? Part of her said yes, she would resist until her dying breath; but that part seems small, insignificant at the moment. Another part, a greater part, realizes that she would give in, succumb to her captor, to his eyes, to his hands, to him. And that wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, she muses. To live in his stare, his eyes the color of the sky after rain, to be worshipped even as she was trapped, as he circled around her, gazing, whispering, enthralling.

It wouldn't be so bad.