Page 28 of His To Erase

My lips part, and God, I hate how badly I want him to close the distance. And honestly, he’s not wrong. I’m soaked. I’m woman enough to know what I want, and right now, it’s him.

My pulse flutters like I’m some wide-eyed idiot who’s never been kissed—it’s not like I’m not bruised and bandaged and still bleeding.

I’m pathetic.

His presence alone feels like I’m standing on the edge of a blade and begging it to slice deeper. Every inch of space he closes feels like a countdown I can’t stop and a warning I refuse to listen to.

Despite everything—despite the pain, the blood, and the rage that still simmers under my skin—I want him.

Seriously, girl. What the actual fuck. Maybe try wanting, I don’t know, an ice pack or a therapist next time.

I can feel the heat coming off his bare chest and the drag of his eyes over my skin like he’s memorizing the parts of me I’m assuming he’s already seen—because again, these clothes aren’t mine.

Love that for me. Nothing says romance like medical trauma and unsolicited nudity.

His face is so close I can see the flecks of gold cutting through the dark in his eyes. They’re sharp, and dangerous in a way. But beneath all that control, there’s something darker. Something hungry. And it’s locked onto me.

He’s got serial killer eyes and I’m turned on. This is going great. I try to breathe through it, but my chest is tight, and my body is caught in the gravity of him, every inhale is shallow, every inch of space between us slowly shrinks like it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Why did you bring me here?” I manage. “Needed a project?”

That flicker of dark amusement vanishes from his face, and his jaw clenches.

“I already told you—I didn’t feel like explaining to the cops why some girl was half-dead in an alley.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” I snap, but my voice breaks somewhere in the middle.

His eyes flash. “No. You were too busy getting the shit kicked out of you to ask.”

I shift, dragging my elbow back against the mattress to sit up, just enough to put space between us. My shoulder screams in protest, and I hiss through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t move to help me—he just watches with that cold, unreadable stare.

Cool. I’m bleeding, bruised, and getting emotionally steamrolled by an action-figure version of Satan. Living the dream.

Then, he slowly leans in again and the air tightens. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

I lift my chin, forcing the words past the ache in my throat. “Enlighten me.”

His fingers brush a piece of hair from my cheek but I feel it everywhere.

“You think this is about saving you?” His voice drops to something cold and lethal. “If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you’d never have made it out of that alley.”

My heart stumbles, and not in a sweet, swoony way. In a what the hell is wrong with me kind of way.

“But you didn’t,” I whisper.

His eyes drag to my mouth. “No,” he says, roughly. “I don’t.”

The silence stretches way too loud for how close he is. Then his voice drops again, deeper this time. And it hits like a warning.

“Next time you walk out a back door alone, maybe think about what would’ve happened if I wasn’t there.”

I swallow and it burns all the way down. Oh great, now I’ve got shame and arousal mixing in my bloodstream. Fantastic. What a cocktail.

“Why did you follow me?” I ask.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Okay. Rude.

His hand drops, grazing the line of my waist—and it shoots a full-body tremor down my spine.

“You just have a talent for stepping into shit that doesn’t concern you.”

I shove at his chest, only my fingers just touch muscle and unfairness.

“Fuck you.”

He catches my wrist like it’s nothing and that smirk returns—sharp enough to cut bone.

“You’re not ready for that,” he murmurs. “You’re recovering.”

His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist like he knows what it’s doing to me. Every touch is calculated. Every move he makes is intentional, even if he hasn’t said it out loud.

“Then stop fucking touching me,” I breathe—but my voice betrays me, coming out too breathless.

His eyes darken when they drop to my mouth, and his grip shifts—down my arm, across my waist—dragging the blanket with it. His fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt.

“You want me to stop?” he asks. “Say the word.”

My thighs press together like a reflex I can’t control because there’s no way in hell I’m stopping him. Not now. Not with his hands on me and the world spinning off its axis.

His hand drags lower across my ribs, settling at my hip like a brand, and I hiss. His eyes never leave mine.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Careful,” I whisper, but it comes out like a dare. “If this is some fucked-up attempt to seduce me, you’re gonna have to try harder.”

His smile drops. “This is a warning.”

The air splits like a crack of thunder and my pulse trips. Hard. Great. Nothing like a little light psychological terrorism with your post-trauma healing.

“You’re playing a game you don’t understand, sweetheart,” he says. “You think this is about bruised pride or whatever the fuck happened between your legs back there, but it’s not.”

Oh, so we’re going there.

My spine straightens despite the pain in my shoulder. It’s throbbing, but it’s nothing compared to the heat flaring in my chest at his tone.

“You keep showing up like I’m your problem,” I rasp. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask you to play bodyguard.”

His smirk dies fast. “You didn’t ask for a lot of things,” he mutters. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need them.”

Fuck him. That lands like a punch I didn’t see coming.

“I’m not yours to protect,” I snap, sharper now. But my voice breaks just enough to betray me. He grabs my chin with just enough pressure to remind me who’s in control.

“You keep saying that,” he mutters, each word dragging across my skin like a blade. “And yet, you keep looking at me like this.”

Then his thumb brushes over my mouth, pulling my bottom lip down like he owns it.

“Go on,” he whispers, “keep pretending you don’t want me to finish what I started in that fucking library.”

I breathe him in, trying not to break. Trying not to let my body answer before my mouth does. But it’s too much. He’s too much. And we both know it.

Seconds later, his hand drops away like he suddenly remembered himself, and touching me cost him something.

“Go shower,” he growls, stepping back, suddenly angry. “I’ll fix your bandages when you’re done.”

What the actual fuck is his deal?

He turns his back to me—running a hand through his hair, and his jaw so tight that he looks like he’s fighting something I don’t understand. And for a second, I’m not sure who’s more dangerous. Me—or him.

I’m not doing this shit right now.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and pain slices through my shoulder—but I push past it and plant my feet on the hardwood like I’ve still got a shred of dignity left to protect.

The bathroom is just as obnoxious as the rest of his house—dark tile, clean lines, and a rainfall shower that I absolutely don’t have the energy to be jealous of right now.

Except I am, and I hate that, too.

The mirror mocks me the second I catch my reflection as I try to peel off my shirt. I wince as the fabric brushes the bruises already blooming across my ribs.

I’ve clearly never looked better.

I have a cracked lip, my ribs are painted in technicolor, and a shoulder that’s pulsing like a fresh kill. One eye’s already starting to bruise, and my cheekbone’s pissed off and swollen. There’s a cut near my hairline, and dried blood is crusted in my lashes like war paint I didn’t ask for.

At least I can say I’ve looked worse. Yet, I’m not sure if that’s comforting or just fucking sad.

I try to yank the shirt off one-handed by hooking my fingers under the hem and pulling it up, but it tugs against the bandage and I flinch, gritting my teeth.

I try again, but it catches on the tape across my ribs and I nearly choke on the sound that escapes me.

Goddammit.

I take a deep breath, trying not to throw up as I shift my weight, trying another angle, and—fuck. The pain in my side explodes again, and it’s blinding. I sag forward, gasping, as my vision swims for a second.

I don’t hear the knock, just the soft click of the door opening.

“Are you—”

“Out,” I snap, whirling around.

The shirt falls back down as I turn, and that single motion costs me everything. Pain punches through my side, and my shoulder gives as I stagger, catching myself against the counter with a sharp cry.

He freezes in the doorway, looking at me like I’m the problem. His eyes sweep down—over my face, and the fresh blood soaking through the gauze, and now his shirt. He closes the door behind him without a word.

“I said out.”

He just leans against the doorframe. But makes no move to leave. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Gold star.” I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Maybe save the obvious for someone who gives a shit.”

He crosses the bathroom in two strides, and his presence is enough to steal all the remaining air I have.

“I heard a noise,” he says. “Thought you passed out again.”

“You wish.”

His gaze drags over me, lingering at the way I’m cradling my bad shoulder. “You can’t even lift your arm.”

“I’m managing.” I lie through my teeth.

“Barely.”

We lock eyes and there’s something sharp in the silence. Yet, his expression is unreadable. I’m starting to realize that unreadable calm is not a comfort.

Then he speaks, and his voice is ice wrapped in velvet. “Let me help you take it off.”

The words shouldn’t send heat flooding under my skin, but they do.

“No.”

Of course he doesn’t listen. His hand grazes the edge of my shirt, and his fingers brush just above my hip bone.

I know what this is. It’s a game. It’s a calculated touch meant to see if I’ll flinch or freeze or melt. I will do no such thing.

“I said no,” I snap—but still don’t move. My hands stay limp at my sides like they don’t believe me either. His eyes don’t leave mine. Not once.

He just stares as his fingers glide higher over skin that should be too bruised to feel anything. But it burns.

“You didn’t say stop.”

My breath stalls.

Then quieter—deadlier—his voice dips. “Hold still.” And I do. I fucking do.

My body’s already made the decision and left my brain out of the vote. And God, I hate how easily I obey. When did this sudden submissiveness happen?

I suck in a breath, but it’s not from pain—it’s how careful he is. He takes his time lifting the fabric over my head, easing it off my good arm—then slower, gentler—past the other.

The shirt hits the floor, and I can practically hear my pussy purring.

“Shower,” he says, his voice rougher around the edges. “You smell like blood.”

I roll my eyes. Anything to keep the heat in my chest from crawling up my throat.

“Glad you’re so concerned.”

He doesn’t answer, instead, he steps past me, and reaches into the shower. The water crashes against the tile, as steam instantly starts to unfurl between us like smoke.

He’s standing close enough that I could touch him if I leaned forward half an inch.

His jaw flexes. “I need to change your dressings after.”

“Planning on watching me?” I snap, like I’ve still got teeth left to bare.

That cocky smirk of his returns, carved from sin. “Only if you beg.”

Then he turns and walks out, door closing behind him with a soft, deliberate thud. Somehow, the silence he leaves behind is louder than anything he said.