Page 29 of His To Erase

Ani

The floor’s cold beneath my feet by the time I find another shirt folded neatly on the counter—one I didn’t see before I got in. It’s so big, it hangs off one shoulder, swallowing me whole.

But it smells like him.

Thank God getting it on was a little easier than trying to take it off. I don’t know if it’s the bruises or the blood loss, but everything feels slow and a little muffled. It almost feels like I’m walking through smoke.

I step out of the bedroom and pause.

The hallway stretches in both directions, both long and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of recessed lights tucked into the baseboards. All I can see is wood, stone, and shadow. Everything smells like cedar and money. It’s stunning.

And a little unsettling.

I have no idea where we are, but it’s massive and silent. Almost peaceful. Every step I take echoes louder than it should, despite the fact that I’m barefoot.

Yeah. This definitely isn’t the kind of place that hosts game nights. I’m brushing my fingers along a doorway I don’t dare open, when I see another hallway branch off to the left, with floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end. All I see is black. I think it’s safe to assume we’re in the woods.

I don’t know how far I walk, but eventually, the scent of burnt toast and coffee hit me. I can also hear something sizzling in a pan.

It smells like… normal. Which somehow makes it worse. I only follow it, because I’m starving, slightly concussed, and—let’s be honest—I can’t start the day without caffeine and maybe a little self-loathing.

And then I see him.

Fuck. Do I see him.

He’s standing barefoot at the stove like some feral domestic hallucination of mine. Modesty isn’t just dead, it’s buried in the backyard and he’s the one who pulled the trigger.

His tattoos are doing that thing—again—dragging my eyes right to them, like they’ve got their own gravitational pull. I really do try to look away.

I fail. Miserably.

Like honestly—does he own a shirt? Or is “half-naked and emotionally unavailable” just part of the control-freak aesthetic?

The sharp planes of his back flex as he stirs something in a cast iron pan, like he didn’t just strip blood-soaked clothes off my body a few hours ago. And here I am—just standing in the doorway with a libido I can’t kill.

I know I should say something.

Or move.

Or blink.

But I just watch him like a creep. A very thirsty, very broken creep.

There’s a jagged scar just under his ribs—angry and uneven, whatever caused it didn’t leave quietly. There’s another one that rides his shoulder, it looks a little more faded but still just as deep.

I try to tell myself I don’t care and I definitely don’t want to ask. Except I kind of do.

“You’re supposed to be in the shower.”

His voice slices through the silence, making me jump, like he’s known I was there the whole time.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He glances over his shoulder. And fuck. That face. That unreadable, detached calm he wears like armor—the kind of danger you crawl to instead of running from. My mind goes instantly to what it would feel like riding his face. Internally I groan, because I need to get my shit together.

“Sit down.”

He turns back to the stove.

“You need to eat before I bandage your shoulder.”

I don’t move. “You always make breakfast for the girls you undress?”

“Only the ones who bleed all over my floor.”

I don’t think he could have sounded more unbothered if he tried. I almost laugh.

The ache in my body’s worse now that the water’s gone. My legs feel like glass and pride is the only thing keeping me upright, right now.

“You didn’t even tell me your name.”

He flips something in the pan like I’m just background noise. “Didn’t know we were swapping life stories.”

This mother—Okay. Nope. Not letting him get to me. I fold my arms, ignoring the tug in my shoulder.

“Figured I should know what to scream if you turn out to be a serial killer.”

“You can scream whatever you want, sweetheart,” he deadpans. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

That earns him a glare.

“So… what? I keep calling you The Hot Tattoo Man forever?”

The second it’s out of my mouth, I want to hurl myself out a window. Oh my god. Kill me. Right now. Ughhh

His smirk spreads. “You can call me God if it helps you sleep.”

I roll my eyes so hard I might tear something.

“Jesus, you’re insufferable.”

“You bleeding out in my bed was the insufferable part.”

He finally turns toward me, deciding I’m finally worth his full attention. Tattoos ripple across his chest and arms as he moves, and the ink is making me flush everywhere.

He sets a plate in front of me, and it’s a breakfast burrito. Eggs, diced ham, and tater tots. It smells so good, it pisses me off.

“Eat,” he says.

“What, no poison?”

“Didn’t think you were worth the effort.”

I raise a brow. “Charming.”

God, he’s such an asshole. And somehow it still sounds hot coming out of his mouth.

Which probably says more about me than him.

I don’t love that. He’s leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, and he looks like something I desperately wish I could climb right now.

And of course his arms are doing that thing.

I need to get my hormones under control before I start licking his arms.

“You want charm, try Tinder.”

“Oh, I did,” I deadpan. “He brought me to the woods and stitched me up after I got stabbed. Real romantic.”

“Lucky you.”

“I feel blessed. Truly.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. He just watches me with that unreadable calm—like he’s already five moves ahead and I’m still figuring out the rules.

Yeah, well, fuck you.

“So?” I challenge, resting a hand on the back of the stool. “You gonna keep dodging the name thing, or should I just call you Dick?”

That earns a look. The slow drag of his eyes is making me feel like I’m being unwrapped and discarded all at once.

“Call me whatever you want, dear,” he says finally.

“God complex much?”

“Wouldn’t need one if you knew how to behave.”

The way he says that means he knows exactly what to say to make me fall apart. I grip the counter, knuckles whitening.

“You’re seriously going to make me beg for your name?”

“You don’t strike me as the type who begs.”

He pins me with a look that hits like a chokehold, and the air disappears from my lungs, my brain short-circuits, and my thighs clench like the traitors they are. Zero loyalty to my dignity.

Jesus Christ. I’m feral. I need help. A priest. Possibly an exorcism.

And my pussy?

Of course she likes the guy who probably has a murder room in the basement. Perfect. Love that for me.

“Shame. You’d look good on your knees.”

My pulse trips as he steps closer, he’s now close enough that I feel that shift in the air.

“Steven,” he says at last, unbothered. “But if you moan it, I won’t stop you.”

My mouth opens and closes. My brain is crashing under the weight of one stupid, filthy sentence that shouldn’t do a damn thing to me. Yet, here we are, with my thighs clenched.

Get it together, slut! I should laugh in his face and remind him I’ve got a knife with his name on it. But my mouth won’t cooperate either.

He turns back to the stove, totally calm and unbothered. It pisses me off that he can just wreck me with one line and walk away like it was nothing.

“Eat,” he says again, calm as ever. “You’ll need it.”

I hesitate. “For what?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “To survive the next time you decide to act like prey.”

My grip tightens on the counter.

“Prey usually runs,” I snap, rolling my eyes.

“They do.” He sets the spatula down with deliberate care. “Right before they get caught.”

I snort dryly and grab the plate—mostly to stop myself from throwing something at his perfectly smug face. Okay, and I’m fucking starving. I’d eat anything at this point.

His eyes stay on me as I take the first bite.

Oh my God. This is good. Like criminally good. It cuts through the nausea and reminds my stomach it’s still alive. I chew, watching him like I still have the upper hand, even though we both know I don’t.

“Not bad,” I say, swallowing. “Could use more salt, maybe a little less serial killer.”

“You talk a lot,” he murmurs, “for someone who was shaking in my shirt twenty minutes ago.”

My hand freezes mid-air and the flush that hits me isn’t from embarrassment. It’s rage.And maybe…that other thing I’m not fucking talking about.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I set the fork down, then push the plate just far enough away to make a point. My shoulder screams in protest, but I ignore it. So does my stomach. I try to ignore that too.

“And you’re awfully confident,” I bite out, “for a guy playing nurse in the woods with a half-dead girl he stripped without asking.”

His eyes flick down, more intentionally this time, unwrapping me without moving a muscle.

“You weren’t saying no.”

“I was bleeding out!”

“Still are.”

He steps toward me, and the air tightens like a vice. My lips part before I can stop them, and I don’t even care how obvious it is.

His voice drops, low and loaded. “I’m not the one playing games, sweetheart. You are.”

My pulse spikes in my throat, and between my thighs. The worst part is, I don’t even know what the hell he’s talking about. All I know is I’m standing here, wrecked and he sees all of it.

One hand lifts to my jaw as he tilts my chin up, our mouths are too close now. His grip is bruising, but his eyes don’t leave mine.

“You like to provoke, don’t you?”

His voice is quiet. Deadly. Like he’s savoring every word. “Say shit you don’t mean… just to see what I’ll do.”

I shift my hips a little, and his eyes flick down, devouring me.

“You’re trembling.”

“From hunger,” I lie.

That smirk curls, and it’s devastating.

“Yeah,” he says, too smooth to trust, too dirty not to crave. “I can see that.”

His thumb brushes my chin. One drag—down the column of my throat and I’m done for. I’m also soaked.

“You want me to ruin you?”