Page 23 of His To Erase

He watches me—still as stone—but there’s a shift. A flicker of something darker in his eyes like he wasn’t expecting me to bite back.

I reach for my bag, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. I don’t wait for a response, I just turn on my heel and start walking.

The club’s too damn loud, the air heavy with perfume, sweat, and power games. My boots echo over the polished floor, head held high even though I can still feel the weight of his gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades. I don’t care, I just need to get out of here.

I aim for the side exit, the one I passed earlier by the VIP bar. But just as I reach for the handle, a body shifts in front of the door.

“Sorry love, can’t exit here,” he says, voice flat.

I blink, glancing past him like maybe he just means it’s blocked.

“It was open earlier.”

“Club’s at capacity. Policy changed.”

Policy changed? My jaw tightens. Yeah fucking right did the policy just all the sudden change. Maybe it did. How the hell would I know?

The door’s so close I could spit on it and this guy’s acting like I’m trying to breach the Pentagon. I glance over my shoulder, and the hairs on the back of my neck spike before I even see Frank. Of course. He’s moving slowly, slipping through the crowd like he’s got all the time in the world.

I grit my teeth, turning back toward the door. “I’m good, really. Just need to get some air.”

The security guy doesn’t even blink. I don’t hear Frank behind me until I feel him. His voice slides in like smoke.

“Change of heart, sweetheart?”

My body reacts before I can stop it. My spine stiffens and my jaw locks, as I clench my fists to keep from spinning around and slapping the smug off his face, or worse, letting him see I’m flustered.

I school my voice. “Tell your guard dog to move.”

Frank steps closer and the scent of expensive cologne and something darker curls around me. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I whip around, nearly chest to chest with him now. “You really don’t know when to back off, do you?”

He studies me like I’m a problem he already solved but likes watching me squirm anyway. Then he leans in, his mouth brushing just beneath my ear.

“If you wanted to leave,” he murmurs, “you’d have gone through the main entrance. You came here to make a point. I let you.”

I freeze.

My heart hammers against my ribs, part adrenaline, part rage, and part something I don’t want to name.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, like it’s a fact and not a warning. “But maybe you should be.”

I don’t turn around. I can’t. My spine locks tight as every inch of my body screams to react, to run or lash out or something—but I don’t. I just stare at the security guard, like this whole moment was designed to remind me who’s in control.

“Just let me go,” I whisper.

Frank exhales behind me. “You’re not trapped.”

Not physically. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. He’s so close that I can feel his fingers brush mine, it’s soft enough to seem like an accident, but firm enough to make it clear it wasn’t.

“You say you want space, and then show up looking like that? In my club?” His chuckle is dark. “You’re sending mixed messages, sweetheart.”

I grit my teeth. “Maybe I just wanted the free drinks.”

His voice dips lower. “Or maybe you wanted to see what would happen if you pushed me.”

I spin, finally, shoving past him, shoulder clipping his chest. He lets me go, but I feel him smiling behind me.

My boots hit the sidewalk hard as I storm down the street. I’m already pulling out my phone to order an Uber when the screen lights up.

Unknown Number: You’re too pretty to walk home alone.

My pulse stutters and I stop walking. Another ping.

Unknown Number: Don’t worry. I’m watching. I won’t let anything happen to you. You look amazing in black, but you’d look better in nothing but my collar.

I spin in place, scanning the street, the rooftops, the shadows that feel a little too heavy now—but there’s nothing.

My fingers tighten around the phone, gripping it like a weapon I don’t actually know how to use. I’m not stupid. I know what this is. I know what it means when someone says they’re watching.

But I don’t know who it is—and that makes it worse.

Could be Tattoo Man? Hell, who else would it be? He’s already proven he’s the possessive, controlling type. Tracking me wouldn’t exactly be a stretch. Unless it’s Sloane fucking with me.

God. Please let it be Sloane or Sarah.

My pulse kicks harder as I glance down the street again, then force myself to walk at a normal pace, with normal posture. Like I’m not two seconds from spiraling into a full-blown panic.

Two blocks later, a pair of headlights crest the hill and pull to a stop at the curb. My Uber. I double-check the plate, my heart still racing, before sliding in.

The driver’s older, and has earbuds in. He’s half-listening to a baseball game, but doesn’t say a word as I slam the door and melt into the back seat, finally letting my shoulders drop.

I don’t relax. Not really. Because the whole ride home, I can’t stop thinking about that message. Who sent it? Who’s watching me?

By the time we pull up to my place, I’m already scanning the windows, the fire escape, the roofline across the street.

Nothing.

But I don’t let my guard down. Not even for a second. I don’t look over my shoulder when I unlock the front door, but every hair on my arms stands straight up like something’s breathing down my neck. I feel like I’m missing something.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

Probably.

Once I’m inside, I deadbolt the door, sliding the chain across, and I press my back against the wood like it might hold me up if I let it.

My phone buzzes again but I don’t move. I just stare at the floor, then slowly, I drag the screen up.

Unknown Number: Sweet dreams.

I stare at the message until my vision blurs. Sweet dreams? Ew. Two words too many, but it’s enough to make my skin crawl.

My thumb hovers over the screen, as my pulse skips. There’s a thousand things I could say.

Who is this?

Fuck off.

Get a life…

But I don’t send any of them because responding means something. It means engagement. And I’ve learned—especially the hard way—that sometimes silence is louder.

I toss the phone face-down on the counter, which ends up being way too loud in the silence. I pace once, then twice. Yanking the curtains tighter, checking the deadbolt, the chain, and the fire escape.

Again.

I splash water on my face, gripping the edge of the sink, and stare into the mirror like it might explain why I feel like I’m being watched from the inside out.

"You’re fine," I whisper.

But I don’t feel fine, I feel hunted. Which is exactly why I grab my phone and call Sarah.

She picks up on the second ring, and I don’t even get a hello.

“Oh, look who finally remembered her emotionally neglected best friend exists. You better be calling to say you’re dying. Or pregnant. Or both.”

I collapse onto the couch, already bracing. “Define dying.”

She exhales dramatically. “Okay, are we talking full-blown crisis or just regular-grade I made a terrible decision and now I need to trauma-dump at midnight?”

I rub my eyes. “I got another message.”

The pause is instant.

“Mystery Pervert or Loverboy Frank?”

“Unknown number. Again. Just said… Sweet dreams.”

I don’t tell her about the other ones, because I don’t want her to freak. She groans so loud I can hear her rearranging her blanket in protest. “Okay, nope. That’s not flirty. That’s Annabelle doll climbs out of the basement energy. Are you alone?”

I scan the windows again, double-checking the fire escape. “Everything’s locked. I’ve done the perimeter sweep like three times, and I’m still convinced something’s breathing in here that shouldn’t be.”

“If a demon made it past your sarcasm and trauma armor, we’re all gonna die.”

A weak laugh escapes. “You’re not helping.”

“Not trying to. You ditched me for a mob husband and now you’re being haunted by the Blair Witch via text. Karma's got range.”

I groan. “It wasn’t a date. It was—”

“A dick appointment wrapped in guilt and danger? Yeah, I know.”

I wince, glancing toward the bedroom. “I thought I could handle it.”

Sarah hums. “You can handle it. You just shouldn’t have to. And maybe next time, you don’t ghost your ride-or-die for a man who buys you diamonds and ominously claims real estate on your soul.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“So is that message. Sweet dreams? Ani. That’s what killers say before putting a pillow over your face.”

I laugh again, a little too high, but real.

She softens, just a little. “Was it Frank?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “He doesn’t sneak. He performs. And this... this feels like someone watching.”

“Okay. Real talk?” she says. “Frank gives Godfather brunch vibes. But this sounds like someone who wants you scared. Which means they’re probably scared of you.”

“I wish that made me feel better.”

“You want me to come over?”

I hesitate. “No. I’m okay. Just—needed to hear a voice that doesn’t make me want to punch something.”

“You sure?” she asks. “Because I’ve got wine, knives, and emotional availability in a horrifying leopard robe. I can be there in ten.”

“I’m good. I swear.”

“Okay, then here’s your action plan… eat something, lock your doors—again—and sleep with your knife. But not with your knife. Save the knife play for someone hot.”

I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“You were. I could hear it in your horny little silence.”

“I hate you.”

“You worship me. And you’d cry at my funeral.”

“Only because you’d haunt me with your ghost boobs.”

“Exactly.” Her voice dips softer. “Babe... you really okay?”

I glance at the shadows and my heartbeat skips one beat too long.

“No,” I whisper. “But I will be.”

She exhales, gentle now. “Alright. Text me if anything moves, breathes, or whispers boo.”

“Define boo?”

“Tall, tattooed, emotionally constipated, and currently starring in your late-night brain porn.”

I hang up before she can keep going, then I kill the lights, sliding the knife under my pillow, and crawl into bed like it might keep the dark out.