Page 30 of His To Erase

My thighs clench like they’ve made their own decisions.

My mouth goes dry—ironic, considering how fucking wet I am.

I should shut up and eat my food, and maybe try to cling to the last shred of dignity I haven’t already bled out in front of him.

But no. That would require impulse control.

Or self-preservation. Or sanity. None of which I have at the moment.

“You couldn’t.”

The words slip out—bold and stupid, soaked in denial.

He exhales a low laugh and God—it’s the kind of sound that should come with a fucking warning label. Because holy fuck.

“Sweetheart,” his voice is like velvet, “you’ve got no idea what I could do to you.”

Then—his palms come down beside me on the counter, caging me in. The heat of him wraps around me like a second skin.

“You really think you’re ready for that?” His voice brushes my jaw like a promise I’m not sure I’ll survive. “For me?”

God, yes. And also…absolutely not. I’m not built to survive whatever that look means. I can’t move, I can’t even breathe. My heart is racing and I want nothing more than everything he’s offering.

“You couldn’t handle me on your best day,” he whispers.

I don’t even get a chance to form a comeback before he pulls back. Just like that.

“Get up,” he says.

I blink. Still in my lust haze. “What?”

“Counter. Now.”

“Why—”

He doesn’t wait. One arm hooks under my thighs, the other cradles my back—and suddenly I’m airborne.

“Hey—what the fu—”

He drops me onto the cold marble like I weigh nothing.

“Keep your mouth shut,” he says, already turning away. “Unless you’re gonna let me fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.”

I mutter something that sounds like “fuck you” under my breath, but he’s not listening.

He pulls out a sleek black medical kit from the drawer—of course he has one—and sets it beside me like this is just another routine task.

Then he pulls out a shot glass and pours some amber liquid into it and shoves it toward me.

“You’re such a dick,” I grumble, keeping my jaw tight. But I don’t take it. I don’t want to drink, let alone take a shot right now.

“And yet you’re still dripping on my counter,” he mutters back, calm as ever—snapping on a pair of black gloves like we’re not both two seconds from spontaneous combustion. Then he slides the shot glass back toward me.

My stomach flips. My body burns. And my ego howls.

He opens the kit, and grabs a curved needle threading it with black surgical silk. He would know how to stitch skin and make it look hot.

“This is gonna hurt. So you’re going to want that.”

“You think I haven’t felt worse?”

He pauses to look at me and fuck—his eyes. They are cold and unreadable, yet somehow still burning with heat.

“Good,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Maybe now you’ll remember who you’re playing with.”

I don’t get any warning when he presses the alcohol-soaked gauze to the stab wound at my side—and I see stars.

White-hot pain explodes through my ribs, and I clamp my teeth together so hard my jaw throbs.

I actually hate needles. The familiar feeling of nausea creeps in at the sight of it, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction knowing how much I hate this.

His hands stay steady as he gets to work. I can feel my body shaking and it feels like I can feel every goddamn nerve in my body screaming. I grip the edge of the marble hard enough my fingers go numb.

I don’t cry. I don’t flinch. And I don’t fold. Because that’s what he’s waiting for, isn’t it? To see if I break.

“Still with me?” he asks, not looking at my face.

I don’t answer. Mainly because, if I open my mouth, I might throw up.

“Huh.” He pauses. “So that’s what it takes to shut you up. A little pain. Noted.”

And he smiles. Dick.

My jaw locks tighter and it takes everything in me to just breathe through my nose. Hopefully that’ll keep me from launching myself at him and stabbing him for once.

Tempting. But probably not wise considering he has a needle at my side.

I wouldn’t even blink if he told me he’s stitched up his own gunshot wounds in a motel bathroom before. The thought occurs to me to ask him if he’s ever been shot, but I hold it in.

“You always this tough?” he asks, casual as hell, the tip of the needle hovering just above my skin. “Or just when you’re bleeding all over someone else’s kitchen?”

I’m starting to hyperventilate. I know I just need to hold still, but If I say one word, I’m either going to scream, sob, or start reciting all the ways I want to rearrange his face. And I’d rather not do that with him shirtless. But I’ll take anything as a distraction right now.

He hums, tilting his head like he’s inspecting damage.

“Let me guess,” he murmurs, just as the first stitch pulls through. I almost black out right then. “You’re the type who doesn’t run. Doesn’t ask for help. And you’d rather bleed out than admit you’re hurt.”

I flinch as he pulls the needle through, and now I want to kick myself. Grabbing the glass I throw it back, trying not to cough. Everything hurts.

“Mm,” he hums. “Thought so.”

The thread bites into my skin again, and it takes everything I’ve got to breathe through it without decking him. I glance down at him, at his perfect, infuriating calm hands. At the way he doesn’t even blink while putting me back together like a broken fucking vase.

“Careful,” I mutter, clenching my jaw. “You’re starting to sound like you want to get to know me.”

His hand stills for a second, but it’s just long enough for me to notice.

“I don’t need to know you,” he says. “I’ve seen your type.”

My spine straightens. “My type?”

He threads the next stitch, tight and clean, and it hurts like a bitch. But he still doesn’t look at me. Luckily whatever was in that glass is helping enough to take the edge off.

“Tough girl. Smart mouth. Doesn’t trust anyone, but still walks around acting like she’s bulletproof.”

Another pull of thread, and another flash of pain. But that one I feel in my chest. He’s not done, he just keeps over analyzing me.

“The type that plays invincible until someone calls her bluff.”

My fingers dig into the counter until my knuckles burn.

“You think that’s what this is? A bluff?”

His lips twitch. “No.” He looks up, “I think it’s a defense mechanism.”

That lands like a punch I didn’t see coming. My mouth opens—then snaps shut.

Because he’s right. How does he see it so easily? Am I really that predictable?

“Hit a nerve?” he asks, maddeningly calm.

I scoff, breathing through the tightness in my chest. “Fuck off.”

I turn my head because I’m close to unraveling and I'm done being under a microscope. I’m so overstimulated on so many levels right now, it’s not even funny. And I’d rather bleed out again than let him see me break.

“There she is.”

The next stitch is much softer, which somehow makes it worse. I stare past him, looking at the far wall.

“You think you’re clever,” I mutter. “Like you’ve got me all figured out.”

“I don’t need to figure you out,” he says. “You’re already unraveling.”

My jaw locks, and my throat tightens as I try to swallow the emotions clawing up my throat.

Fuck him.

I open my mouth just to shut it, again. “You ever…” I stop. Regretting it immediately.

His eyes flick up. Waiting. “What?”

“Never mind.”

“No,” he says, his tone is flat but firm. “Finish it.”

My fingers twitch against the edge of the counter, but I still can’t look at him.

“Do you ever feel like you're forgetting something important?” I whisper. “Like… your life looks like it’s yours, and sounds like yours, but something’s off.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going.

“You know, like you’re watching yourself from the outside. But nothing feels right, and no one else seems to notice.” My throat tightens. “And the worst part is… it almost makes more sense that way.”

He still says nothing. He just ties the last stitch, but doesn’t move for a long beat. Then—“Every fucking day.”

He strips off the gloves and tosses them into the sink, and starts washing his hands. Back to his usual untouchable, unreadable self.

I nod, swallowing down whatever the hell that was. I need to get out of here before I say anything else that resembles feelings.

“You hide it well,” he says quietly. “But whatever you’re running from…” A pause.

“Eventually, someone’s going to catch on.”

He grabs a clean towel and tosses it onto the counter beside me like an afterthought.

“You know where the bathroom is.” His voice is back to what it always is—cold and distant. His mood swings are giving me whiplash.

“Try not to bleed on anything else.”

Then he turns and walks away without so much as a glance back. I stay frozen, with my eyes locked on the broad set of his shoulders as he disappears down the hallway. And I’m still sitting here with my ribs stitched shut and my insides unraveling.

My ribs pull tight with every breath, the stitches sting, and the towel he tossed beside me is still clenched in my hands as I slide off the counter and drop into the nearest barstool like it’ll anchor me somehow. It doesn’t.

The silence stretches. I don’t know how long I stay like this, with my bare skin against the cold leather of the stool, and my body aching, while my brain spirals.

What the fuck am I doing? How did I even get here, and what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I’m in his kitchen—his territory—bloodstained and exhausted, trying to remember why I ever thought I had the upper hand. This man stripped me, stitched me, touched me like I was his... and walked away like I was irrelevant.

My eyes flick toward the hallway he disappeared down.

Am I supposed to wait?

No. Fuck that.

My brain feels scrambled—but I push to my feet and head down the same hallway he vanished into.

The floor’s cold beneath my feet, and the house is silent. As soon as I reach the guest room, I close the door behind me, leaning against it longer than I should.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back. My skin is bruised, my lips are cracked, and I’m still wearing a shirt that doesn’t belong to me.

I glance toward the nightstand—and freeze. My bag.

Fuck. Sarah.

I snatch it up, digging for my phone like it’s the only thing tethering me to what’s left of normal. The screen lights up with unread messages.

Sarah: Are you alive???

Sarah: Bitch I’m gonna kill you

Sarah: You disappear and now I'm googling what to do if your best friend gets kidnapped by a hot felon. You have 24 hours to contact me before I start to actually worry.

I huff out a breath that might be a laugh or a sob. It’s hard to tell the difference right now.

Then I see the other texts.

Frank: It’s been long enough. We’re having dinner. I need to talk to you.

Frank: I’ll pick you up tonight. Wear something I like.

My stomach flips. And not in a good way. More like a…crawl-out-of-your-skin kinda way. Wear something I like. How about you fuck off and I wear a paper bag.

I don’t know what the hell kind of vibe I put out that men think they can just tell me what to do—but apparently I’ve got welcome mat energy, and I fucking hate it.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

I should say no, I want to say no, but I know he’ll just keep asking. Maybe I should just go, and we can actually talk.

Me: Fine. But only for dinner. I’ll get my own ride.

I hit send and immediately want to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I exhale, flipping to Sarah’s name, and text her before she sends out a search party.

Me: I’m alive. Not kidnapped. Just emotionally damaged and possibly making stupid decisions.

Me: Can we meet for lunch later? I need… a reset. And maybe a taser. I’ll fill you in then.

I toss the phone onto the bed and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars bloom behind my lids.

What the fuck am I doing? Seems to be the question of the century.

I head for the closet looking for anything I can wear out of here. I’m not about to leave in an oversized shirt.

There aren’t many clothes, just a few black tees, sweats, and a hoodie. All his. I grab a pair of black sweats and a plain white tee that smells like cedar and clean linen—like him, which pisses me off more than it should.

I don’t want to wear his clothes. But I’m also not walking around like a blood-soaked horror show, so here we are.

I pull them on slowly, and everything hurts. Bending, breathing, existing. My ribs scream with every movement. I somehow manage to get the shirt over my head, knot it at my waist, and pretend like I haven’t just surrendered something vital.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and open the Uber app, I have no idea where I am—just that it’s deep in the woods, and the house looks like it probably eats people for fun.

Still, I drop the pin and hit confirm, because I need to feel like I’m doing something.

I set the phone on the bed, screen-side up, watching the timer count down like it will keep me from losing it completely.

My hands are still curled into fists at my sides, when the screen lights up again.

Uber: Your driver will arrive in 2 minutes.

That was fast.

Good, it’s not enough time to hunt him down or talk myself out of leaving.

I grab my bag and head for the door, my pulse hammering harder than it should. I’m not sure why, because I’m not staying in someone’s house just because they stitched me up and made breakfast.

That’s not how this works. That’s not who I am.

The hallway is quiet, but I manage to find the front door on the first try without any awkward encounters. I sling the bag over my good shoulder and step outside into the cold morning air.

I stay on the stone path, scanning for headlights, when a sleek, black car rolls up the long driveway—I didn’t double-check the name or look at the license plate, but it looks like the photo. Close enough.

The car stops just outside the gate and I hear a soft click as the back door unlocks. The driver steps out, opening my door for me. He’s dressed in all black, but has a friendly expression on his face at least.