Page 27 of His To Erase

My mouth’s a desert and my head is pounding like it’s been used as a drum at a death metal concert.

The first thing I notice is that I’m not wearing my own shirt. The second thing… My arms in a sling.

I’m in a black oversized shirt that’s definitely not mine. And, oh—great. No bra. Of course.

My vision’s still a little hazy as I squint down at myself, trying not to spiral. What the actual fuck.

I scan the room, looking at floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall, revealing nothing but dense woods and darkness. No blinds. No curtains. Just glass and shadows and a big neon sign that reads remote murder cabin vibes.

The walls are black slate, broken up by built-in steel shelves that scream tactical more than decorative. If someone dropped in uninvited, I’d bet my life they’d be met with throwing knives and trauma.

There’s a fireplace on the far side—it’s sleek, with a matte black finish, but there’s no mantle. Just fire and stone and silent fuck-you money.

What the hell does this man do for work? Crime lord? Sex dungeon interior designer?

There’s no clutter and not a single photo or personal detail anywhere. And here I am—bleeding in the middle of it, in someone else’s clothes.

On the nightstand, sitting dead center like it belongs there, is my knife. My boots are lined up neatly by the door like I’m some fucking guest in a five-star hostage situation.

Someone undressed me.

The memory hits like a freight train.

The alley. Blood. That man. My knife.

And Him.

The man with ink on his chest and a mouth that knows no mercy. Who kissed me like he wanted to ruin me and speaks in threats.

A shadow shifts in the hallway and the door opens. Speaking of the devil. He’s shirtless.

And of course he’s wearing the holy grail of thirst traps—gray sweatpants. They’re slung so low on his hips that it looks like they’re held up by arrogance alone. A towel hangs around his neck.

My brain? Gone. Offline.

Because fuck. His chest is carved from hunger and restraint—every cut and ridge is sculpted like some bored, horny god decided to personally design my downfall.

Tattoos cover him like armor—thick black ink crawls across his chest and wraps down his arms like a dare.

One sleeve is all blackout—solid and merciless, and the other’s chaos.

There’s linework and weapons and symbols I don’t understand but desperately want to.

Script winds down to his knuckles, which is stupidly hot.

There’s one sprawling across his chest and another trailing along his ribs, half-swallowed by shadow. I can’t read them, but the second I spot them, my thighs clench like they’ve made up their own damn mind. I would lick every single one of those.

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?

He looks like someone took sex and violence, mixed it with gasoline, and poured it into the shape of a man I’m not supposed to want. And yet—yep. I want every goddamn inch of him on my tongue.

His arms are fucking massive. Don’t even get me started on his veins, popping like a felony. I look a little lower, which isn’t hard considering I’m basically eye level. That V that disappears into his sweats is criminal.

My mouth goes dry as heat pools low and fast and absolutely not invited.

This is a man built to fuck you up—emotionally, physically, and spiritually and I’m already halfway to falling apart and he hasn’t said a single word.

My eyes drag down his chest again because I’m clearly trying to punish myself with the view.

I don’t stop until I hit the waistband of those goddamn sweatpants, and even then, it’s not because I want to. If I don’t look away now, I’m going to spontaneously orgasm. I want to punch him in the throat for making me want him so damn much.

But I want to lick him first.

And that’s a problem, because I’m laid out in his bed, bandaged and bruised, with my shoulder wrecked—and my first coherent thought when he walks in is how fucking hot he is and how much I want to impale myself on him.

I should be thinking about how he might’ve saved my life. I have no idea where I am—but I have a sneaking suspicion I’m in his house.

I should say something, but I can’t. He looks like the kind of mistake I want to make on repeat until I forget why I ever tried to stop.

My pulse spikes when his eyes land on mine. I sure as fuck hope he can’t read minds.

He stares for a beat, then clears his throat, nodding toward the glass of water on the nightstand.

“You’re awake.” His voice is smooth, yet rough.

Try not to sound too concerned about the fact that I nearly bled out in an alley while you were off charming blondes like it was your goddamn hobby.

I don’t say that. So instead, I just stare at him, because what the fuck am I supposed to say?

“You look like shit,” he adds, walking past the bed like he’s not at all concerned that I’ll lunge for the knife and stab him.

“Try not to bleed on the sheets. They’re new.”

My jaw locks. Every part of me screams, but I push myself up anyway. The pain lances down my side, ripping a sound from my throat I don’t mean to make.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up.”

“No shit,” I snap, gritting my teeth. “Thanks for the medical advice, Doctor Dick.”

He exhales through his nose, but I see the corner of his mouth tilt, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Still got that mouth, I see.”

“Still got that ego, I see.” I pant through the pain, pressing my good hand into the mattress like it might anchor me. “Where the hell am I?”

“My house.”

I keep my face neutral while my pulse decides to just trip over itself.

I glance around again, slower this time—like the walls might cough up a clue about who the hell this man actually is. I suspect he’s not normal.

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs.

Okay…because saving me from a back-alley murder attempt and peeling me out of my bloody clothes was just some casual Tuesday cardio. Like I’m the one being dramatic.

“You were bleeding,” he says, keeping his voice maddeningly calm. “Didn’t seem like you were in the mood to call an Uber.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could’ve taken me to a hospital.”

“Could’ve, yeah.” His lips twitch. “But I wasn’t in the mood for answering questions.”

That shuts me up for exactly one beat. Because what the actual fuck. He drops into the chair across from the bed, arms draped over his knees like this is just some casual little chat. Still shirtless. Still smug. And still the exact kind of danger I should be running from—if I could run.

My gaze flicks to the tattoos again.

Mistake.

“What the fuck were you doing in that alley?”

I blink. “Taking out the trash and going home. What did it look like I was doing?”

“Alone?”

“Glad you were paying attention.”

His jaw ticks. That cool, untouchable mask of his slips—just for a breath—before snapping back like it never moved.

“Are you always this reckless?”

“Are you always this obsessed?” I shoot back. “You’ve got a real problem with following me. You know that, right?”

He tilts his head like I’m amusing. “You were bleeding in the street.”

“Yeah, and now I’m bleeding in a stranger’s bed.” I hiss the words. “That’s not creepy at all.”

“You’re not bleeding anymore.”

“And you’re still a fucking asshole.”

He leans back in the chair, smiling like he wants to carve his name into somewhere I’ll never wash it off, then watches me like he’s memorizing every twitch of my face just to use it against me later.

“You gonna tell me who that guy was?”

“Why? Are you jealous?” I smile—regretting it the second his expression changes.

His eyes go dark. “If I was,” he says slowly, “he’d be dead already.”

My breath catches, but I cover it with a smirk. “Charming.”

He stands up and I flinch—just a little, barely more than a blink—but he sees it and freezes.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Ani.”

My stomach coils with the way he says my name.

Wait. How does he know my name?

I glare, breathing hard through the pain. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

His jaw tightens. That faint tick again—like it wants to say something, but won’t. And then he stalks closer and every instinct in my body screams run.

“You think I want to hurt you?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “No. I think you want to break me.”

His mouth twitches—just barely. Like his mind went exactly where mine did.

“You’re not that easy to break, sweetheart.” He pauses. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t break what’s left.”

Jesus. Fuck.

I felt that one in my soul.

He stops beside the bed, towering over me, and the air shifts. I hate the way I have to tilt my chin to keep eye contact. I really hate the way my body just reacts to his every move.

And holy hell…

Up close, shirtless, and fresh out of the shower—he looks like war made of muscle.

Veins, abs, and that fucking V. I can’t help but stare. What is a girl supposed to do? I’m not a nun. My eyes drag down his body like I’ve been drugged and the only symptom is thirst.

Yeah. I definitely have a head injury. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“You’re staring,” he chuckles.

“I’m concussed,” I lie.

My gaze flicks—briefly—to the waistband of his sweats. Which is a huge mistake. Literally.

Fuck.

He sees it, of course, and that smile spreads like slow poison—smug, cruel, and fucking satisfied.

“Is that why your thighs keep clenching like you’re trying to hold onto your last shred of dignity?”

Heat floods my face. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re probably wet.”

My pulse spikes with rage and…arousal. I don’t know which one’s louder. I just know my pussy’s screaming.

“Fuck you.”

He leans in bracing his hands on either side of the mattress, caging me in without even touching me. I can’t breathe with his breath ghosting over my cheek. Not with his body that close and not with me being this fucked up.

“You’d let me.”

His voice is all gravel and promises I’ll regret in the morning, brushing against my ear like it has a goddamn vendetta.