Page 17 of His To Erase

Tattoo Man

Iknew she was going to lie the second her boots slowed in front of the wrong building.

The pause was too rehearsed, like I haven’t spent the last week watching every fucking move she makes.

She didn’t even flinch, she just marched herself up to the shittiest complex on the block and stood there like it belonged to her.

She clearly wanted me to just believe it and walk off, disappearing into the dark. I’m already wound so fucking tight with the urge to take her apart.

I waited two blocks away, with my hands in my pockets while she looped behind the building. She probably thought she was clever, and didn’t look back. Not once.

She thinks she’s careful.

She’s not.

Her window’s dark now. But I know which one it is. Even though I know she locked the door behind her, I could pick it in five seconds flat.

Locks are for amateurs and I’m not some voyeur with a hard-on and a half-baked fantasy.

I’m worse.

I’m the kind of man who already knows how she tastes. Who’s already had her under him. Shaking and breathless. And if she thinks that was the end of it—she’s out of her fucking mind.

I’ve had her on my tongue, felt her body tremble, clawing for control she didn’t have. And fuck me, something broke in me the second she came.

She’s not just pretty. She’s beautiful—in that don’t-look-too-close-or-you’ll-bleed kind of way.

All jagged edges and fire wrapped in five feet of fight, and she’s nothing like I would’ve expected.

That long hair—half white, half black—should look ridiculous, yet it doesn’t.

It fits her like the chaos she pretends she doesn’t carry.

She dresses like she’s going to war. Every piece of fabric is armor. Every layer, a challenge. I’d peel her like a fucking fruit, until there’s nothing left but the soft center she doesn’t let anyone touch.

The tattoos down her arms. The smudged eyeliner she never fixes.

That fucking mouth—always a smart ass comment just waiting to come out.

She walks like she’s got brass knuckles braided into her DNA.

Everything in me wants to break every rule she’s made for herself just to see what it takes to keep her.

She’s the kind of beautiful men ruin themselves over trying to tame. And she let me close. That was her first mistake.

The kiss wasn’t about heat, it was about timing. Her phone slid right out of her pocket like it belonged to me.

Now it does.

I’m two buildings down, posted in the shadows between a rusted fire escape and a vending machine that hasn’t worked since the city still had hope. It smells like piss, fried oil and rain-soaked concrete—but I don’t care. Comfort isn’t why I’m here.

She is.

Her phone’s still warm in my hand, but it’s locked. I huff a dark laugh through my nose. Cute. Like that’s going to stop me.

Nothing does. Not when I want something. And I want everything.

Her texts. Her location. Her contacts. Her schedule. Her past, her patterns—her fucking blood type if it comes to that. I want the world she hides when she thinks no one’s watching.

Installing the tracker is easy. Almost too easy. She’ll never know it’s there. She’ll keep moving through her little routines, completely unaware that I can see her.

I lean back against the wall, adjusting the hard-on that’s been testing the seam of my jeans ever since I pinned her against that library ladder and made her forget her own name.

I’ve already decided—she’s mine.

The taste of her is still on my tongue and I don’t want to forget it anytime soon. I want it seared into me.

She still thinks she has the upper hand here, but she doesn’t even know she’s already lost.

I close my eyes, slowing my breathing. Not because I need calm, but because I need control. If I let myself slip for even a second, I’ll be in her room so fast, dragging her skirt up and licking her open again just to hear that wrecked little gasp she tried so desperately to swallow.

Her lights have been out for twenty-seven minutes. No movement. No pacing. Which means she’s asleep. And when she sleeps, she sleeps hard.

Just for a second, something tugs at the edge of my focus. A hairline fracture in the pattern I’ve already memorized.

She doesn’t stray. Every movement, every stop—down to her coffee order—is consistent. Predictable. But not like most people.

It’s too precise. Almost like she’s going through the motions and trying too hard to look normal. I’ve seen it before—people trying too hard to look like they’ve got nothing to hide. They overcompensate on the surface… And fuck up the parts that matter.

So maybe she’s not just some innocent bartender with soft eyes and trust issues. Maybe she’s playing me. And maybe she’s lying about how broken she is.

An hour passes before I move.

The fire escape groans under my boots, metal whispering my presence to the night like it wants to be caught. I test the window, and it’s unlocked.

Stupid girl.

I slip inside soundlessly.

The apartment smells like her. Lavender and coffee, edged with something wild and lived-in. It hits me in the chest harder than I expected.

There’s a knife on the table, and her boots are kicked off sideways, one barely hanging off the rug, like she didn’t have the energy to finish the job. She’s draped across the couch like the day tore her in half and left the rest behind.

She has one arm over her stomach, and the other curled toward her face, twitching slightly.

I slide her phone onto the counter—right next to a chipped mug and a stack of takeout menus covered in her messy handwriting.

My gaze sweeps the room—books are stacked everywhere, and a half-empty water glass sits on the table. She seems like the type of girl who reads until her eyes bleed. Probably to drown out her own thoughts.

It fits her.

I start to leave, but then I hear her.

“Get off me… please don’t…”

My body goes still. Every muscle locks, and every instinct that’s ever made me a killer comes roaring to the surface.

I turn.

She’s still asleep, but barely. She’s breathing ragged, and her lips are parted. Her legs kick once, tangled in the blanket.

Her voice breaks again.

“Please…”

The word slices clean through me—soaked in fear. Half-formed through sleep, but there’s nothing uncertain about the way it lands. It’s a plea pulled from bone-deep memory, not imagination.

My hand hovers near the door, but I don’t move.

She shifts on the couch, curled in tighter now, her knees draw up like she’s trying to disappear. Her fingers twitch. Her jaw clenches as she takes another breath, and there’s another broken whimper.

“Don’t… not again…”

My jaw locks, hard. I don’t even notice I’m grinding my teeth until the ache hits. What is going on?

She’s dreaming. But this isn’t just a bad dream, this is a memory with teeth. I take a single step back, eyes locked on her. Her face is half-buried in the couch cushions now, and there’s just enough moonlight to catch the sweat at her temple.

Fuck.

She looks small.

She looks nothing like the sharp-tongued brat who throws sarcasm like knives and acts like the world owes her a reason to keep breathing.

Right now, she looks like someone who knows exactly what it’s like to be prey. To be hunted. Her mask is off, even if she doesn’t know it. And I don’t want to look at her like this.

My fingers twitch again, as I curl them into a fist.

Then—so soft I almost miss it—“Don’t let him take me…”

My chest goes still.

What the fuck happened to you?

I stare at her for too long. That raw sound of fear echoing in my head like a goddamn bell I can’t unring.

And who the fuck is him?

Whoever it is, I want to meet him in a dark room with no cameras and the time to make it count.

My gaze drags down her body, taking in the shape of her, the mess of her hair sticking to her cheek, her bare leg curled up under her. She shifts again, her arm slipping down, and that’s when I see it—a faint, jagged, scar running along the inside of her forearm.

My stare lingers on it, but I make myself move. My footsteps are silent as I back toward the window.

My pulse is still thundering in my ears when I slip outside, closing the pane behind me like I wasn’t just standing in her space with one hand on her fucking secrets.

Back in my car, I sit for a second just breathing. But her voice keeps playing on a loop in my head.

Don’t let him take me…

She’s been through some shit, that much is obvious.

I need to get my head back in the game, whatever shit she’s tangled in, isn’t what I need to focus on right now.

I drive back to my place without even remembering the streets I turned on. My knuckles are white on the wheel the entire way. When I get inside, I don’t even bother turning on the lights. I slam the door behind me, throwing the phone on the table, and drag my hoodie off like it’s suffocating me.

My cock is already hard again.

The worst part wasn’t hearing her beg. It’s that I fucking liked it.

And if I had it my way, the only name she’d ever cry out in the dark would be mine—wrecked and trembling, the way she was in that library.

That voice.

That mouth.

That bratty, razor-edged attitude that makes me want to split her open just to see what she’s hiding underneath.

I drag a hand over my jaw as I step into the bedroom, but I don’t bother with the lights.

She’s seared into me now. Every fucking nerve ending is tuned to her.

She’s a walking contradiction—porcelain wrapped in warning labels, and soft curves strapped into combat boots. She’s built like a problem and dressed for the fallout.

Every time I've seen her, she’s in all black everything, like she’s been at war with the world and shows up to every battle already dressed for the funeral.

Every step she takes is a challenge. Every smile dares you to try and tame her.

And fuck me—I hope someone tries, so I can watch them bleed.

She’s small, stubborn, and unapologetically stunning. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t ask for attention—she commands it.

And maybe I like the sharp edge of that. Maybe I want to bleed for it.

She’s not just pretty. She’s fucking dangerous. If it’s a reaction she wants, I’ll give her a reckoning.

I drop onto the edge of the bed, my jaw is locked, and blood is pounding through my veins like it’s got nowhere else to go.

My fist wraps around my cock, already pulsing with every fucked-up thought she’s burned into me.

That voice. That bratty, breathy edge that lives in my skull now. Sharp and soft and soaked in attitude.

My eyes slam shut and there she is. Mouth open. Head back. Thighs shaking.

Dripping for me.

That look on her face when she came… fuck, I’ll never forget it.

Like she didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

It was like her body finally figured out who it belonged to.

I picture her on her knees—lips parted, chin tilted up, and those eyes daring me to ruin her like she doesn’t already fucking know I would.

All I can see is that filthy mouth wrapped around my cock, while I hold her jaw open and fuck her until the only sounds she makes are the ones I give her.

Just tears caught in her lashes and spit dripping down her chin and the sound of her choking around me like it’s the only thing she knows how to do.

It’s not even the image that unravels me. It’s the feeling. It’s the way she looked at me after—like maybe she wasn’t scared.

She wanted more.

I stroke harder, and my breathing turns sharp and ragged, my jaw locks as I chase the edge of something I’ll never fucking reach. Not like this.

Not without her bent over and begging, with her voice cracking on my name while I fuck her until the only thing she remembers is who she belongs to.

It hits like a freight train—dark and vicious—and I come with a low, guttural sound that barely makes it past my teeth.

But even then… it’s not enough. Because it’s not her.

It’s not that soaked cunt wrapped around my cock while she claws at my shoulders, asking me to ruin her.

I sit still, breathing like I just went twelve rounds in the cage.

My hand is still twitching from the grip, and now my thoughts are a noose around my own fucking neck.

I reach for the towel, wipe the mess off like it’s going to make me feel less like a monster, and drop back against the mattress, my spine sinking into cold sheets that feel emptier than they should.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The library should’ve been the end of it.

But it’s not just the way she moaned, or the sound of her breath hitching when I bit her thigh, or how soaked she was from a few filthy words murmured like a promise. It’s the way she fucking flinched. The way her mask cracked when she thought I couldn’t see her breaking underneath it.

I want the tears and the sass. The fight and the surrender. I want every piece of her she’s still trying to hide. I drag a hand over my face, then reach for my phone.

My thumb hovers over one contact.

It rings twice.

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

The voice on the other end is amused, and too fucking smug for someone who’s still breathing because I haven’t changed my mind yet.

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat. “I’ve got a favor.”

A pause. Then a soft, knowing laugh. “Aren’t those supposed to go both ways?”

I lean forward, my jaw is clenched so tight it clicks. “I need eyes on someone. Quiet ones. I want routes. Patterns. Who they talk to, who talks back, and what changes when they think no one’s watching.”

Another beat of silence. “You’re being cagey. Even for you.”

“Just do it.”

My tone drops. “And if anyone catches wind you’re looking, I’ll make it your last favor.”

That earns a low whistle. “Still charming as ever. Alright. Send what you’ve got.”

I don’t say thank you, or goodbye, I just end the call and stare at the wall like it might bleed answers.