Page 15 of His To Erase

Ani

The street’s too quiet. That should’ve been my first red flag.

I knew I should’ve called an Uber.

Hell, I should’ve taken the main road, like any normal person with a functioning survival instinct.

But I didn’t. Because I’m an idiot.

I like pretending I’m not afraid anymore. Like the old me—the one who flinches at shadows and second-guesses every footstep—doesn’t still live in the back of my head.

Spoiler…she does.

My boots hit the pavement, each step echoing too loud off the brick and concrete. My keys are wedged between my fingers, jutting out like teeth. I used to joke about it—telling Sarah I’m fine walking home because I was basically Wolverine.

It’s somehow less funny when your heart’s pounding in your throat.

Something shifts in the alley to my left. A shadow breaks off the wall like smoke, but I don’t stop walking.

"You always walk home alone this late, sweetheart?"

That voice. Smooth as silk, but sharp as a goddamn razor.

Tattoo man.

I don’t answer right away, instead I just turn slowly, letting him step fully into the light.

He looks like every crime I haven’t committed yet and all the ones I already regret.

His sleeves are shoved up over his beautiful tattooed forearms, and the ink at his throat coils like it might bite.

That black stare eats me alive without asking permission.

His jaw ticks once, but his shoulders stay loose—like a predator too bored to rush the kill.

"Didn’t realize we were playing stalker now," I mutter, trying to ignore the skip in my pulse and the heat pooling low in my stomach.

My body clearly isn’t getting any of the memo’s when it comes to this man.

His smile is laced with something darker than amusement. "Not stalking. Walking."

His voice dips lower, like it’s meant to curl straight between my thighs.

"Figured I’d be nice and keep you safe on my way. Call it a favor."

He pauses, dragging his eyes down the length of me with that same cold calculation he always hides behind.

"Not everyone you let close has your best interests, sweetheart."

That hits harder than it should. My stomach tightens, jaw twitching. What the hell does he think he knows?

"And what are you protecting me from, exactly?"

His smile drops like a blade. "Everything that wants to own you."

Some small, fucked-up part of me wishes he meant himself. I should roll my eyes, and throw a line over my shoulder, or veer off in the opposite direction and pretend like this doesn’t affect me. But I don’t move.

"What are you doing here?" I ask instead, my voice sharp enough to slice through the chill climbing my spine. It’s instinct—mask the shiver, bury the reaction, pretend I’m unaffected.

His hands stay in his pockets, but the way he steps closer feels like a threat.

"Same reason you’re still standing here."

I blink, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “You don’t even know me.”

His gaze sweeps over my face like he’s dissecting me cell by cell—filing away every twitch, every breath, every lie I think I’ve hidden.

“I know enough.”

That shouldn’t make my knees loosen or my pulse stutter like a faulty wire. But it does.

God, I hate how still he is. Like nothing I say can touch him. It feels like he’s always five moves ahead and doesn’t even care if I catch up.

And yeah, that does something to me, but it mostly pisses me off. Like who the fuck is this man?

This gorgeous, cocky, too-quiet, infuriating man with a stare that feels like a loaded gun and a mouth I want to both slap and sit on.

I want to demand answers, but all I can do is stand here, trying not to tremble, while my brain screams run—and my body whispers closer.

“Is that what you do?” I ask, crossing my arms to keep from fidgeting. “Follow women around and say cryptic shit to feel mysterious?”

That almost-smile ghosts across his face, and it’s unfairly devastating.

“Only the ones who pretend they’re not looking over their shoulder.”

My heart misses a beat.

“Maybe I just don’t like being followed.”

He tilts his head. “You’d rather be alone in the dark?”

“I’ve handled worse.”

His eyes gleam, catching the halo of the streetlamp behind me. That smile fades, just enough to show what’s underneath.

“I don’t doubt it.”

I swallow the lump that rises in my throat, hating how that almost sounds like a compliment. Part of me wonders how much he thinks he knows. Because the truth is—I still don’t know his name, and yet, somehow, he feels like a secret I’ve already told.

“You got a name, shadow?” I ask, not even pretending to hide the edge in my voice.

“No.”

Then—he smirks. Like that one-word answer is a fucking mic drop.

Which, unfortunately, it is.

Goddammit.

My apartment’s close, so I start walking again, only I don’t want him to know where I live, so my steps are slow.

“You always this twitchy when someone walks you home, or am I just special?”

I glance at him over my shoulder, one brow arched. “You’re a guy in a hoodie following me down a dark street. Forgive me if I don’t feel like swooning.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Swooning would be dramatic. I was aiming for mildly flustered.”

“You’ll be aiming for a black eye if you keep talking.”

That earns a grin. One of those slow, crooked ones that makes it way too easy to forget how dangerous he feels. Lord, the things I would let this man do to me.

“Didn’t realize threats were your love language.”

I face forward, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “They’re my everything language.”

His boots crunch against the gravel as he steps closer. “That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you’re kind of cute when you’re hostile.”

I stop walking.

“Cute?” My voice could slice through concrete. “You’re the one following me home.”

His head tilts slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that should not be legal.

“Is that what this is? Following?”

“You’re behind me, aren’t you?”

He steps forward. “Not anymore.”

My breath catches—traitor—but I don’t flinch. I keep my chin up, boots planted. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I mutter. “I’m just too tired to argue.”

He smirks, dragging his eyes over me like he already knows what color I taste like.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

God, I want to slap him… and kiss him.

My stomach twists as we cross the street, and I realize I’m doing something stupid—memorizing the sound of his footsteps beside mine.

The way his shoulder almost brushes mine.

The heat rolling off him in waves. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion, not the way his presence makes everything else feel muted.

Like the world turns down when he gets close.

I hate it.

I slow my steps in front of a different building, like this is where I live. I’ll let him think it, because the last thing I want is him knowing which door is actually mine.

He doesn’t need to know which window stays lit too late. Which one creaks when you push it open. I don’t need him tracing my patterns. I don’t need anyone that close.

I stop at the stoop, shift my weight, and school the tension out of my shoulders like it’s something I can exhale.

“Well, this is me,” I say casually.

It’s not. But he doesn’t need to know that.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye—and he’s not looking at the door, he’s looking at me. Like he sees right through my lies.

Of course he fucking does.

“I’m good from here,” I mutter, turning just enough to throw him a look that’s more bark than bite. “Unless you plan on checking under the bed for monsters too.”

His brow arches. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found something hiding under a bed.”

My stomach twists. I can’t tell if it’s the threat buried in his tone—or the fact that I wouldn’t mind if he crawled in with me.

The image alone is dangerous.

Him. My bed. The things he’d do once he got there.

I blink hard, trying to shake it off. “Do you always make breaking and entering sound so sexy?”

It’s out before I have the chance to filter my thoughts.

His mouth curves, slow and lethal. “So you think I’m sexy?”

Why do I have to open my big fat mouth?

The sidewalk narrows where the streetlights flicker, casting a golden glow that makes everything look too intimate.

I stop walking. My eyes flick up to meet his, sharp and searching. “You gonna tell me your name?”

He studies me like he’s deciding whether I’ve earned it. That quiet stillness he wears like a second skin settles deeper into his posture—solid and unreadable.

Then, with a voice like gravel and gasoline he says, “Why? You planning on screaming it?”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting, even though my thighs clench and my lungs burn, knowing damn well I’m drenched.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who knows how to follow a girl home,” I say, flipping it, letting the fire in my chest bleed into my voice.

He steps closer, with no warning, and no hesitation. His body brushes against mine and my back meets the cold, unforgiving brick of the alley wall.

“Your turn,” he murmurs.

I blink, dazed. “What?”

“Your name.”

“Luna,” I lie, forcing my spine to stay straight.

His head tilts. Shit. He knows I’m lying. There’s no way he could know my name. I don’t wear a name tag at the bar for a reason. And when my boss makes me, it’s new every time.

He doesn’t call me out on it, though. He just leans in, until his mouth is at my ear, and I can feel the heat of him everywhere.

“Pretty name,” he murmurs. “Shame it’s not yours.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t crack.

“You gonna prove that?”

He doesn’t move at first—he doesn’t need to. He just watches me with that unreadable gaze, like he already knows how this ends. Then his hands slide to my hips, fingers curling tight, and he pulls.

Now I’m flush against him—chest to chest and my mouth starts to water.

“Sweetheart, I don’t have to prove shit.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then drags back up. “I decide when you break.”