Page 101 of His To Erase

Ten weeks later.

Ani

Sarah was mad at me for weeks after I got back. She called every single day just to cry and cuss me out, reminding me—loudly—that she was still pissed I got kidnapped. That she could’ve lost me and didn’t even get to shoot anyone over it.

Her words. Not mine.

Honestly, I think that last part might’ve been what bothered her the most.

“I’m serious,” she sniffled on the phone, while I was curled up in Steven’s lap and trying not to cry into his hoodie for the fifth time that day.

“I thought you were dead. Do you get that? Like—actually dead. In a ditch. Or locked in some psycho’s cage.

Or—oh my God—trafficked. Do you even know what that does to a girl? !”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered for the thirteenth time.

“I know,” she sobbed. “I’m just so happy you’re alive. But I’m still mad. And for the record, I knew Frank was a freak.”

We didn’t talk about the worst parts at first. But she sent me a care package with Sour Patch Kids, dry shampoo, and three new shades of black eyeliner, so I knew she got it.

When I finally did tell her the truth—about Frank, about Steven, about everything—I expected tears. Maybe yelling. Possibly a margarita to the face. Instead, she grabbed the tequila and poured herself three shots.

“Okay,” she said after the third shot and one very suspicious egg roll. “I forgive you. Sort of.”

I laughed. “What?”

“You’re back, thank God. Now I’m over it.”

“You’ve been mad at me for a month.”

“Yeah, and I mourned you like a fucking widow—while rage-scrolling your TikTok and threatening to delete every ugly photo I have of you. That’s how mad I was.”

She stole my Sprite without breaking eye contact. “But also? I love you. Obviously. Now shut up, because I have tea.” She paused just to be dramatic. “I think I’m in love with a man I’ve never met.”

I choked on my drink. “I’m sorry?”

“I know. I know. Don’t say it.” She fanned herself dramatically, leaning back like it was a confessional. “But it’s true. He’s funny. He’s smart. He gets me. And he’s hot.”

“You’ve actually seen this guy?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not technically. He FaceTimed me once, but he was wearing a ski mask. I heard his voice though—and I swear, Ani, it had daddy energy.”

I snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“It means he probably looks like he drinks espresso in a three-piece suit and could ruin my life with one look. So obviously, I’m in love.”

I blinked, because what the actual fuck. “Okay. I have, like, six follow-up questions—but let’s start with the part where he wore a ski mask and you still got horny.”

“Yes! Full blackout. No eye holes. Very mysterious.” She nodded, dead serious. “Like Batman—if Batman had manners and a bigger dick.”

I stared at her for a solid thirty seconds, because I genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh, or stage an intervention.

This is what happens when you leave your best friend unsupervised with Wi-Fi and a vibrator.

“Sarah.”

She blinked, all innocent. “What?”

“You’re dating a voice?”

“Okay, first of all, don’t kink-shame me. Second of all, I did a reverse image search of his profile pic and he passed the vibe check. Third, we’re planning on meeting in person in a few weeks.”

I couldn’t help but stare at her like she’d lost it. “You’re going to meet a stranger from the internet whose face you’ve never seen.”

She grinned. “You dated a mafia wannabe and fell in love with an assassin. Let me have my little mystery man.”

“Touché.”

“I’m serious though. I have a good feeling about this. And you know me—I never have good feelings about men. They’re usually the root cause of my migraines.”

“Still could be,” I muttered.

She laughed. “Not this one. He’s… different. He actually asks questions about my life. And he doesn’t send unsolicited dick pics or call me ‘mami’ like that guy from Tinder.”

I ignored the fact that she said unsolicited.

“And you’re sure he’s not a catfish?”

She shrugged, but there’s something soft in her expression. Something almost… hopeful. “If he is,” she muttered, “he’s way too emotionally intelligent for a catfish. Maybe he’s a sea turtle. He has boundaries.”

I couldn't do anything but laugh after that, but I did grab the tequila and get myself a round.

Sarah was in love with a masked man who types like he’s hot. I was busy inheriting a criminal empire and pretending I knew what the fuck I was doing.

It’s fine. We’re fine.

I knew that look she had—wild-eyed, reckless, and a little unhinged. I’d seen it in the mirror once. Right before everything went sideways.

These days, I’ve got backup accounts, burner phones, and apparently a reputation that makes grown men piss themselves. Which is hilarious, considering I didn’t even want the job.

But for some reason, they only listen to me. No matter how many times I try to hand it off, the calls still come to me.

Some mornings, I still wake up wondering if I’ll have to kill someone before breakfast. But I don’t flinch at silence the way I used to—and the coffee’s a hell of a lot better.

I do still sleep with a weapon, only it’s not under my pillow anymore. It’s next to me in bed. And he’s 6’3”, built like sin, and completely unhinged when it comes to me. So yeah. I’m good.

We got another dog somewhere in the middle of it all, and named him Ronald. For obvious reasons. He chews Steven’s shoelaces and worships Bern like she runs the house. Which, to be fair, she does.

My relationship with Steven is obsessive and violent and louder than anything I’ve ever known, but it’s real. And for once, it’s mine.

I stretch, getting tangled up in the sheets as the sunlight filters through the window, making it the kind of morning that makes people want to journal or manifest or drink herbal tea.

Instead, I’m doom-scrolling for unsolved murders while wondering if there’s any chicken and rice left in the fridge.

Steven’s not here, unfortunately. Not that my pussy could handle round six right now. Pretty sure I didn’t fall asleep—I passed out. A girl can only take so many orgasms before her soul starts leaving her body. And after getting edged within an inch of my sanity all night, I’m exhausted.

The man multitasks. Aggressively. And he always looks so fucking hot doing it. I want to unzip his skin and climb inside just so he takes me everywhere with him.

I can’t complain—because whatever he’s doing usually dictates what kind of mood he’s in when he gets home. Which is exactly how last night happened.

I’m just about to get up and pour coffee when the knock comes.

I freeze mid-stretch, and Bern lets out one warning bark from the end of the bed, like how dare the world interrupt our soft era.

Ronald loses his shit on instinct—barking like a gremlin, feet scrambling against the comforter as he tries to figure out what we’re mad about.

I pad barefoot to the door, tugging Steven’s hoodie tighter around me—the black one with the bleach stain from last night when I impulsively bleached a chunk of my hair. Honestly, it’s mine now. He just doesn’t know it yet..

When I open the door, I freeze. What the fuck?

So many fucking boxes cover the porch and they’re all addressed to me.

I bend down to grab the first one, and it’s heavier than I expected. Now I’m mildly concerned I just picked up a bomb—but I don’t stop. Curiosity outweighs whatever rational response I should probably be having, like calling Steven. Or, you know, just leaving them there.

So I start opening them, one by one, bracing for chaos. But nope—every damn box is full of books.

They’re all first editions. Some are collector’s copies that probably cost more than my old rent. A few I’ve loved since I was a kid, and some others I’ve never even heard of, but I can already tell I’m going to lose sleep over them.

It takes me a minute longer than it should to realize what I’m actually looking at.

And when it hits me, I’m already crying. These aren’t just random books. They’re all from my wishlist. Every single one.

Each box has a number written on the lid—1 through 27. And tucked just inside each one is a folded piece of parchment paper.

I open the first one, and it’s blank. Second one? Also blank. Third—same. My hands are shaking, and my heart’s doing something weird and traitorous in my chest, but I can’t stop. Am I missing part of the joke?

And when I get to Box 11, it says, “Until the very end.” I read it out loud and instantly regret it, because now I’m crying again.

Box 15 says: “You are protected, in short, by your ability to love.”

And Box 20—“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times…”

I whisper the rest without needing the paper. “…if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

By then, I’m on the floor. Completely wrecked. Books everywhere, heart in pieces. He’s probably smiling somewhere like the smug bastard he is, knowing I’d cry over this. And I’ve never loved him more than I do in this moment.

All the boxes are open, and I have my tears mostly under control—when I spot a smaller box I must’ve missed. The label says 9?, and I swear I actually laugh through a sob.

I stare at it for a full thirty seconds before I can see enough to open it. Inside is a single book, with the quote taped to the top.

It’s not Hogwarts, but it’s yours.

You collect stories. I collect you.

So I built a place to keep both.

I turn and head straight for the bedroom to grab my phone, pulse picking up with every step. I’m already reaching for the nightstand—ready to call him—when my eyes catch on the card. I freeze for half a second. It’s written in that same vicious scrawl I’ve grown to crave like oxygen.

Back hallway.

Third door.

Try not to scream, you’ll scare Ronald and he’ll pee again.

My brows lift, but my thighs press together instinctively. Some feral part of me hopes he’s waiting. I can feel myself getting wetter with every step, as I move down the hall. Past the guest room. Past his office. To the third door.

I open it—and forget how to breathe. It’s not a guest room anymore, it’s a library.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves wrap around the walls, already filled with books. There’s a skylight above, and warm sunlight spills in like some kind of staged fantasy. But it’s the ladder that gets me.

It’s one of those sliding wooden ones—just like at the library.

My face goes hot instantly. The last time I was near one of these, he had his head between my legs and told me not to make a sound.

I shake the memory off and look up, spotting a book shoved at the very top—a black leather one with no title. I climb up to grab it, and the second I do, something slips out and flutters to the floor.

You’ve got the house. The dogs. The guy. Now you’ve got the room.

So next time I’m face-deep in my favorite little cunt, I won’t have to worry about being interrupted.

Enjoy your ladder, dear. I know I will.

P.S.—I’ll be back before dinner.

PPS—Till murder-suicide do us part. I love you.

—S

I cover my mouth, already blushing so hard it feels like my skin might melt off. I drop into the chair as tears stream down my cheeks, which feels wildly unfair, considering how fucking soaked I already am. My body doesn’t know if it wants to keep crying or crawl into his lap and beg.

It still gets me sometimes that I’m here. That he’s mine. That somehow, after everything, I crawled out of the fire and landed in a life that is actually pretty amazing.

It’s mine. All of it.

And I don’t even know what to do with that—except sit here, crying, soaked, and aching in this stupid chair I’m 90% sure he bought just to break me in later. He gives me everything I didn’t think I could have… then fucks me like he’s trying to erase the years I went without it.

The floor creaks behind me, and I turn—already knowing who it is. I know that walk like I know my own heartbeat. I would recognize it in a hurricane.

He steps inside, and my pussy clenches like it fucking recognizes him and knows exactly what he’s about to do to it. One look and I’m ready to commit a whole list of felonies with his last name.

He’s wearing a black shirt that’s stretched across his chest, sleeves shoved to his elbows. His forearms are veined and flexed, tattoos on full display—and somehow the way he’s just standing there makes me want to drop to my knees and ruin us both.

Then his eyes drop, and when they come back up, I catch it—that bulge in his jeans, thick and definitely getting harder. He’s not even pretending to hide it.

My whole body clenches and I grip the note tighter, pressing my thighs together like that’ll do a damn thing to help.

God, that look he gets when he knows he’s wrecked me is my favorite flavor of fucked. His gaze drops to the note, then back up to my face—and it’s a miracle I’m still standing.

He smirks, smug as hell. “You like it?”

I bite my lip. “The ladder or the threat of interruption while you devour me alive?”

“Yes.” He chuckles.

I laugh through the tears. “You built me a library.”

He steps closer, eyes never leaving mine. “You built me a life.”

My chest does that stupid tight ache thing that makes me want to kiss him and punch him in the same breath. But before I can say anything, he reaches into his back pocket.

“I have one more surprise.”

He pulls out a plain, silver key with a black tag attached to it.

My brows pinch. “What is that?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “A key. It goes to a building.”

“What building?”

His mouth curves into the smile that ruins lives. “The one you wouldn’t shut up about months ago.”

My brain short-circuits. “The one that was already sold when I got there? Wait, how did you know about that?”

“Because I was the one who bought it.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out because my brain's not functioning. I’m just standing there like a fucking idiot while my heart shatters.

“You bought it?” I whisper. “You bought me a fucking building?”

He leans in, kissing the side of my mouth. “Dreams are for the dead, pretty girl. You’ve got plans.”

And now I’m crying again. How the hell are you supposed to breathe when the same man who wrecked you puts you back together—then builds you a library just to hand you the goddamn world?

You cry. You melt. And then you ride him into next week, thanking him—loudly. Bent over the desk. Up against the shelves. Maybe even on that stupid table by the front window, just to be dramatic.

He kisses me like he’s starving—like it’s been weeks, not hours. And when I kiss him back, it’s not because I’m broken. Or lost. Or looking to be saved.

It’s because I finally stopped running.

For the first time in my life… I already have everything I need.

Him.