Page 113 of His To Erase

“No,” I murmur. “I think someone already did. I just want to know where they put the body.”

That shuts him up. He knows exactly how deep this goes. He doesn’t ask for context, he doesn’t need to. He’s been in my shadows long enough to recognize the cold edge of a buried truth when he hears it.

“Alright,” he says, all business now. “I’ll ping you when I get a hit.”

Click.

I let the phone drop back into my lap, my eyes stay fixed on the apartment across the street. I’ve spent the next forty minutes staring at a window I have no business watching when my phone vibrates again. I open the file and my eyes narrow the second I catch the document header.

Property transaction.

Puerto Rico.

It looks like they tried to bury it under two LLCs and a trust account wrapped tight in enough legal tape to keep most eyes away. But Travis isn’t most eyes. And no one hides shit like this unless they’re trying to erase it entirely.

It’s not the amount of the purchase that stops me. Surprisingly it’s not even the purchase itself, it’s the signature line that stops me.

Just a placeholder ID—nothing else. But the routing data doesn’t match either. A mismatch that specific doesn’t just happen by accident. Someone scrubbed the file and hoped no one would dig this deep.

A second buzz lights up the screen. Another file. Smaller this time.

The attachment is blurry, compressed to hell—like it’s been scanned, re-scanned, and buried behind a dozen firewalls.

I zoom in.

The person in the photo’s turned away, and their face is obscured. It looks like it could be heavily bruised, but then again, it’s a shity photo, so it could be shadows. But those eyes…I know those eyes.

I stare at the screen for too long while that old, familiar rage curls low in my spine. Whatever this is, it’s not business anymore.

The file is still open on my screen, burning a hole right through me. But that fucking timestamp. There’s no way that’s fake.What are you up to?

I take a slow breath, flexing my fingers like it’ll calm the way my blood’s starting to burn.

I can still see her in that fucking dress. That kiss. The way he touched her like he had a right to. He wouldn’t even fucking know what to do with something that sharp.

It would seem like I’ve been too quiet and someone’s gotten too comfortable.

I slide my thumb across the screen and open a thread I haven’t used in a while. The last message I sent still has no response.

My jaw flexes, and for a moment, I wish I was there to savor the reaction.

Me: You looked good tonight. But you’ve always looked better on your knees.

She locks her windows now.I expected that. They aren’t hard to get open, I just don’t feel like trying to squeeze through the window right now. I’m not in the mood, not with my cock hard as a fucking rock.

She deadbolted the door like it’ll keep anything real out. Cute. She’s cautious, smart, and maybe a little paranoid. I like that.

The lock’s decent enough to slow someone down, but not enough to stop me.It never is. One shift of pressure, a flick of tempered steel, and I’m in. God, I’m good at this.

She doesn’t even stir.

Inside, it’s quiet, and the air carries a faint hint of something warm. Lavender, maybe or vanilla.

It smells like the girl who looks at men like she’s daring them to try and fight, because she’s clawing her way back from hell.

But the softness I see in her right now is a version of her I’m sure she doesn’t let very many people see. She looks so peaceful, I almost want to disrupt it.

Only I don’t move for a minute, I just stand here and listen to the faint hum of the fridge, and her breathing.