Page 140 of His To Erase

I blink, and I’m back in the bathroom. Just me. No weird smelling room, or grabby hands. Except—I remember something.

A bracelet.

Thin leather—dark brown, worn soft at the edges from years of never taking it off. I remember the way it wrapped twice around my wrist. I remember the frayed thread I used to twist when I was nervous.

I never took that thing off. Not once.

Except… it’s not on my wrist now. And that’s what makes my stomach twist. So where the hell is it?

Thanks for the free trauma amnesia, I guess. Five stars. Would dissociate again.

I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, and my stomach is flipping like I missed a step. Part of me knows exactly what this means—but I refuse to think it through. I don’t need the answer. I don’t want it.

I rub at my wrist. Hard. Like I can scrub off the phantom weight that’s suddenly driving me insane. I grab my hoodie, yank it over my head, and I’m out the door before I can talk myself out of it.

I’m not looking for him. I’m not looking for anything, really. But the second I crack open the door, I know I’m lying.

The house is quiet, and for once, I hope he’s asleep. He doesn’t need to know I’m tiptoeing through his hallways in a hoodie and underwear like some ghost with a grudge.

The floors are cold under my feet, every step threatens to wake the dead—or worse, Steven. The hallway forks, and I decide to take the left instead of the right because knowing my luck, his room is probably down that way, and I don’t have a death wish. Yet.

I’d rather snoop first. Get a lay of the land before I accidentally summon the demon I’m crashing with.

The air shifts the second I pass the stairwell—heavy and charged. A shiver skates down my spine and for a second, I swear I’m being watched but I chalk it up to nerves. And trauma.

And my deeply toxic tendency to snoop through emotionally unavailable men’s houses like I’m not one bad night away from a full psychotic break.

The living room opens up ahead, and the firelight is casting long shadows across the furniture. I pause near the back of the couch, half-expecting to find him draped over it—shirtless, ridiculously broody, maybe a knife glinting in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.

Peak dark romance monster behavior.

But no. Just shadows.

I creep a little farther in, flicking my eyes toward the kitchen as I pass. It’s dark, thank God. Which means there’s no way in hell I’m flipping on a light—not with all these windows.

I lean over the back of the couch, making sure he’s not at the other end—because God forbid I admit I’m just snooping like a nosy little gremlin hunting for red flags. My hair falls forward, and cold air slaps my ass like a reminder I’m not wearing pants.

Whatever, I don’t care. If a girl sneaks around a psychopath’s house and no one sees her ass, did it even happen?

I straighten, still wired, still nosy, and I keep moving. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand, and I have that feeling again. I look around, but no one’s there. There is however, a door tucked behind the main room that’s slightly open, with a soft orange glow, like there’s a fireplace inside there too. I’m not sure if it’s an invitation or a trap.

I pause. Then sigh.

“I'm absolutely going to open this and regret it,” I whisper to myself. “Honestly, if this ends in murder or orgasm, I probably deserve both. Just saying.”

I push the door open and it creaks.

Of course it does. Shit.

Why wouldn’t his office door sound like the start of a murder documentary.

Everything inside is stupid perfect. It smells like smoke and cedar—and something darker. It smells like him, and it’s making my mouth water. It’s the scent that still clings to my skin, right where he pressed his cock into me. But, I’m going to try not to think about that.

There’s a fire flickering low on the far wall that’s built into the stone like some cozy, masculine wet dream. Unless you’re barefoot and spiraling in your maybe-stalker’s house with no pants on. Then it feels less sexy and more like a potential crime scene.

“Cool,” I mutter. “Of course he leaves fake flames going like this place doubles as a villain lair slash sex dungeon.” Then, quieter, because if I’m going to talk to myself, I probably should whisper.

“I bet Frank’s into that shit too—mood lighting while he fucks your throat and tells you you’re lucky.”