Page 185 of His To Erase

A beat passes.

“Well.” I exhale. “That took a turn.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but what’s alarming is my lack of reaction.

He huffs once, barely a breath of a laugh. “You asked.”

“I did. And I’m regretting it a little now.”

My voice sounds light, but my pulse’s doing things I don’t love. There’s something razor-sharp behind his words—something old and buried so deep it scrapes when he tries to dig it up. He says it like a joke, but I have a feeling there’s more to that story.

He leans in, eyes still on mine, and drops his voice to something quiet and lethal. “Then maybe it’s your turn.”

I should lie. Or dodge. Or throw something flirty and bratty back at him just to keep the balance. That’s what I do—keepit so far from the truth that nobody thinks to look closer. But something about him in this moment makes the words slip out before I can stop them.

“I always wanted to open a bookstore,” I murmur. “Nothing fancy. Just a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop with creaky floors and weird hours. Maybe a crooked bell over the door and a frenchie that bites everyone except me.”

His hand doesn’t stop, and I can feel the smile tugging at the edge of his voice when he finally responds.

“That’s adorable,” he drawls. “You? Curating romance novels and yelling at customers for dog-earing pages?”

I roll my eyes. “No yelling. Just strategic glaring.”

He huffs a quiet laugh—and fuck, it shouldn’t hit the way it does. It’s low, and unexpected, almost like he forgot to keep it locked down. Something about that sound—how rare it is, how real—makes my chest pull tight. I feel like I just witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to see. And I want to hear it again.

“Let me guess,” he teases. “The shop’s called something pretentious, like Mourning House.”

I bark a laugh, cheeks flushing. “Wait, shut up. That’s actually a good name.”

He leans in slightly, while simultaneously grazing my clit. My breath stutters, but I don’t pull away. A beat passes. Then another. When he speaks, his voice is different…quieter.

“You said something the other night.” His tone’s casually. “About how you don’t remember getting here. To Denver. Is there anything else you can remember?”

I stiffen before I can stop myself. Why the hell would he ask me that and why the fuck does it matter? Despite the rising tide of questions and hesitation, I answer truthfully.

“No.” A beat. “Maybe. There was a hallway and a couch I didn’t recognize. I think… I think I was staying somewhere else. Just for a little while.”

Another pause. Then his voice lowers, calm as ever. “Were you alone when you left?”

My stomach clenches. “I think so.”

“You think?”

I glance at him, but his face gives me nothing. Just steady eyes pinning me in place.

“There was a lot of yelling,” I whisper. “And I know I was bleeding… I just don’t know where. My shoulder maybe or my face. I don’t know—I just remember the taste of copper, and something warm dripping down my ear.”

Steven’s hand tenses on my leg. But I keep going. “I woke up in a motel, with my shirt on backwards, and my head was split in half, or at least it felt like it. My phone was gone and I had to get a new one.”

A bitter breath leaves me. “Pretty sure that’s when everything got fuzzy. Like my brain decided to slam the door shut and call it self-care.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Then —“And you didn’t go back?”

I huff a humorless laugh. “What, and leave a Yelp review? ‘Two stars—terrible lighting, lots of blood, would not recommend.’ Steven, it was a fucking crime scene. What the hell was I supposed to go back for?”

He stays quiet for another moment. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

I shake my head. “Not really. People get weird when you don’t have a neat little trauma story, and your memories don’t come in a straight line.”