Page 34 of His To Erase

Steven

She sat on my counter in nothing but my shirt and an attitude, with her chin tilted up like she hadn’t just been bleeding in the street. Still talking shit. Still challenging me like she didn’t owe me her life. Literally. And then she left.

No goodbye. Not even an ounce of hesitation.

Good.

That’s exactly how I wanted it to feel. Temporary and replaceable. So why the fuck am I pissed?

What’s funny is, she really thought she could order a ride and slip out the door like she wasn’t still wearing my shirt, smelling like me, and leaking cum all over her thighs.

Like I wouldn’t notice.

I canceled her ride the second it popped up and replaced it with my own. The driver’s one of mine—been with me for years. The car was already outside the gate before she even opened the app.

She thinks she’s clever, that I don’t see through the sharp tongue and that fake indifference. But I do. I see everything.

I see the way she fidgets when she’s pretending to be still. The way her mouth tightens a split second before she lies. The way she flinches when someone touches her for too long, but doesn’t flinch at all when it’s me. I want so badly to dick her down within an inch of her life.

She doesn’t even realize she tells me everything without saying a word. And that makes me fucking insane.

She walks around like she’s untouchable—when every step begs to be challenged.

She was built to be bent, broken, and used.

She pretends she’s addicted to freedom, but the second someone grabs her by the throat and tells her to get on her knees, I’d bet every dollar I have she’d obey like it was instinct. And she’d love it.

Hell, she’d fucking thank you for it, then lie through her teeth and call it control. She plays the part too well. She knows exactly what she’s doing—every movement, every glance, is designed to distract and to disarm.

I almost admire it.

Not many people are that self-aware. She clearly knows how to tilt her head just enough to bait a man without looking desperate. She knows to drop her voice when she’s hiding something, and I’m not falling for that bullshit.

I happen to be in her area on business today, not the kind I talk about and not the kind that leaves paper trails. It’s usually the kind that ends with someone bleeding or begging—or both. I’m wrapping up when the ping hits my phone.

She’s home.

As soon as I round the corner on her street, my eyes scan for movement, and I see a car parked out front looking out of place.

The engine’s still running, so they aren’t planning on staying long.

It’s the kind of car you don’t drive unless you’re trying to make a statement, and she’s sitting right in the passenger seat.

I slow down, narrowing my eyes as I clock the whole scene in one breath.

Her body’s angled toward him with her shoulder against the door like she’s caged. I’m sure her legs are even crossed. That dress—black and skin-tight—hugs every curve like it was sewn onto her, making my dick instantly hard. She looks hot as fuck, she also looks like she’s on defense.

He’s leaning in, and I’m close enough to know his hand is sliding up her thigh, and she fucking lets him. Her body’s stiff, but her eyes are drifting out the window, like she’s somewhere else.

Interesting.

Rage slices through me like a fucking blade. My fists clench on instinct, and my jaw is locked so goddamn tight I could grind my molars to dust. I don’t know what the fuck he said to her—and I don’t care. It’s already enough to make me want to burn this whole goddamn city to the ground.

I want to break his fucking fingers just for making her smile, whether it was real or not. I can’t breathe without wanting to shove his face into the pavement and make damn sure he never steps into her space again.

One more fucking second and I swear to God, I’ll end him.

She doesn’t kiss him back, she just sits there, and it makes me want to put a bullet through his head. That should be my cue to walk the fuck away and let her keep playing house with a man who thinks a tailored suit and a fake smile earn him ownership.

But I don’t move.

The way he touches her—it’s not affection. It’s control. It’s a performance and she’s letting it happen. She’s sitting there like she didn’t just cum on my tongue and dig her nails into my shoulders while screaming my fucking name.

It makes me want to drag her out of that car by the throat and remind her who’s been inside her head since the second I touched her.

She fucking knows exactly what kind of man he is and what a man like that is always—always—waiting to take.

And yet, she stays.

She doesn’t just stay, she plays along. Smiling when she’s supposed to, keeping her voice light, and relaxed. Every inch of her screams confidence.

She’s too fucking smart to be this stupid.

She’s playing a game she doesn’t understand. And whatever story she’s telling herself to get through it—he’s playing it better. He’s two moves ahead and dragging her toward the checkmate she refuses to see coming and she’s going to lose.

But that’s not my fucking problem.

The passenger door swings open like nothing just happened and his hands weren’t all over her. She steps out, and pretends she’s not unraveling beneath his stare.

She could wear his ring, for all I care. Hell, she could wear his fucking name. But I know what her mouth sounds like when it’s saying mine.

The next time she steps out of a car that doesn’t belong to her, I won’t be across the street. I’ll be waiting at the fucking door.

An hour later, I’m still parked across the street with the engine off and the lights dead. Her shadow moves behind the curtain—outlined in that soft glow she always forgets to turn off. A beat later, the room goes dark.

I lean back in the seat, one hand wrapped around my phone, the other curled into a fist inside my coat pocket.

Waiting.

I pull up his number hitting call, it only rings once.

“You’re late,” his voice is rough, like he just woke up.

I stare at the building, and the windows that are still dark. “I need a trace,” I say in the way that puts people on edge.

“Just find me the records. I want any movement, and all financials. Anything encrypted.”

I hear him moving—then papers shifting, and tapping on a keyboard. “We talking foreign or domestic?”

“Both.” I pause. “Start with offshore accounts, or anything tied to recent real estate shifts.”

He whistles under his breath. “So we’re pulling teeth this week. You know you’re gonna have to give me more than that if you want this done fast. And it will cost you extra…”

My eyes narrow on the window again.

“Shut the fuck up.” I don’t bother softening it. “It’s not the money you get off on, and we both know it. Just get it done.”

A pause, then more tapping on his end. When I hear a muffled curse and what sounds like rustling paper or fabric. Either he’s finally moving through files—or dragging himself upright like the dramatic bastard he is.

“Any flags I should know about?” he mutters.

“There shouldn’t be.”

I drag in a slow breath, eyes locked on the innocent person walking their dog.

“But if you find any, don’t touch them. Just keep watching.”

He hums. That thoughtful, slightly smug sound he makes when the job just got interesting.

“You think she’s still a liability?”

I don’t answer. Because that’s the problem, I don’t fucking know. The timelines don’t line up, and ghosts I’ve buried are suddenly crawling back with new names and old scars.

“Focus on movement, and any incoming wires. Maybe look for gaps or mismatched timestamps.”

“So, you think someone’s hiding a transfer?” he asks, voice still dry—but I can hear it shift. He’s intrigued now.

I glance out the window again, scanning the area.

“No,” I murmur. “I think someone already did. I just want to know where they put the body.”

That shuts him up. He knows exactly how deep this goes. He doesn’t ask for context, he doesn’t need to. He’s been in my shadows long enough to recognize the cold edge of a buried truth when he hears it.

“Alright,” he says, all business now. “I’ll ping you when I get a hit.”

Click.

I let the phone drop back into my lap, my eyes stay fixed on the apartment across the street. I’ve spent the next forty minutes staring at a window I have no business watching when my phone vibrates again. I open the file and my eyes narrow the second I catch the document header.

Property transaction.

Puerto Rico.

It looks like they tried to bury it under two LLCs and a trust account wrapped tight in enough legal tape to keep most eyes away. But Travis isn’t most eyes. And no one hides shit like this unless they’re trying to erase it entirely.

It’s not the amount of the purchase that stops me. Surprisingly it’s not even the purchase itself, it’s the signature line that stops me.

Just a placeholder ID—nothing else. But the routing data doesn’t match either. A mismatch that specific doesn’t just happen by accident. Someone scrubbed the file and hoped no one would dig this deep.

A second buzz lights up the screen. Another file. Smaller this time.

The attachment is blurry, compressed to hell—like it’s been scanned, re-scanned, and buried behind a dozen firewalls.

I zoom in.

The person in the photo’s turned away, and their face is obscured. It looks like it could be heavily bruised, but then again, it’s a shity photo, so it could be shadows. But those eyes…I know those eyes.

I stare at the screen for too long while that old, familiar rage curls low in my spine. Whatever this is, it’s not business anymore.

The file is still open on my screen, burning a hole right through me. But that fucking timestamp. There’s no way that’s fake. What are you up to?

I take a slow breath, flexing my fingers like it’ll calm the way my blood’s starting to burn.

I can still see her in that fucking dress. That kiss. The way he touched her like he had a right to. He wouldn’t even fucking know what to do with something that sharp.