Page 39 of His To Erase

He leans back and looks more entertained than anything as he folds his arms across his chest. The way his shirt pulls tight over his biceps makes me want to drop to my knees and find out if he tastes as dangerous as he looks. Fuck my life.

Focus.

“So what,” he says lazily, “you’re just gonna cross-examine every guy who turns you on until one of them blinks?”

I should slap him. Or myself. One of us needs it.

“You’re not that special.”

He shrugs, smug as hell. “That makes one of us.”

God, I hate him and the way his voice gets under my skin. And between my legs. Ugh.

“You realize this is more stalker behavior, right?” I try to sound pissed, but it comes out needy. “The shit you say, the—”

“Watching isn’t stalking,” he says smoothly. “We’ve been over this.”

“Sounds like exactly what a stalker would say.”

He chuckles. “And yet here you are, asking for my number.”

My eyes narrow, and I’m seriously debating punching him. “I’m not asking for it. I’m verifying it.”

“Right,” he drawls. “Totally different.”

Without blinking—he holds the phone out between us, with the screen already unlocked.

“Well?” his voice dips just enough to drag across my skin. “Go ahead. Call yourself.”

I snatch it from his hand before I can second-guess myself. The phone is warm—still carrying the heat of his body—and the thought that hits me next is so uninvited, so stupidly feral, I nearly drop the thing.

It was just in his pocket.

Right next to—

No.

Absolutely not.

This is not the moment for a mental detour into dick territory. This is not the time to wonder how low that waistband sits, or if he’s one of those guys who goes commando just to ruin lives. Or how big he is.

This is a who-the-fuck-is-threatening-me moment. A real-life danger moment.

Not a let’s-imagine-what-he’s-working-with-under-his-clothes moment.

I need therapy or celibacy. Or maybe a baseball bat and a rage room. Maybe all three.

I type in my number, and my fingers are sweaty. This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. I have no idea why I’m so nervous.

I press call, and my phone—still face-down under the bar—starts to buzz.

I stare at it, flipping it over, and sure enough… it’s not the one that's been haunting my screen.

My stomach dips, but I hang up and check the recent calls again just to be sure. It’s not him and somehow, that’s worse. Because that means someone else knows where I sleep, what I wear, and who I’m with. And I have no fucking clue who they are.

Which also means, I don’t know what the hell I’m dealing with.

Steven hasn’t moved. He just watches me with his arms folded, and those stupid unreadable eyes, like he’s letting me choke on the weight of my own doubt. And suddenly, I feel stupid. Embarrassed.

“See?” he says, maddeningly calm. “Not me.”

I hand the phone back without meeting his eyes, keeping my jaw locked tight. “You could have another number.”

He takes it, totally unbothered. “I could. But if I wanted to scare you, Ani…” He leans forward, and his voice—God—his voice dips low and brushes the shell of my ear like a fucking confession. “I wouldn’t use a burner. I’d show up. You’d know I was there because you’d be able to feel me.”

My breath stutters.

Not because of what he says, but because I believe him.

Every word lands like a promise. No hesitation. No bluff. Just cold, hard certainty delivered in a voice built for temptation. And it just turns me on more. I’m so fucked.

“I don’t play games,” he murmurs. “I take what I want.”

I laugh, sort of, but it comes out too high.

“Then maybe you should leave,” I say tightly, “before you take something that isn’t yours.”

But my voice doesn’t carry the punch I want it to. His eyes have already dropped—straight to my mouth—and I know that look. I’ve felt that look. That look knows things it shouldn’t, like what I taste like when I forget myself, and what kind of sounds I make when I break.

He leans in just enough for the heat of him to skate across my skin— he smells like cedar and leather and whatever the hell lives between a loaded weapon and a fuck-you grin.

It’s a scent I’ve already memorized and it’s not helping the situation.

“I’d be careful if I were you.” And just like that, he straightens to his full height.

Holy fuck.

I stare up at him and swear I can feel my common sense leaving the building like it’s clocking out early to save itself.

My pulse is Wrecked.

My spine, Liquid.

And my dignity is holding on by a goddamn thread.

“I don’t share,” his voice is barely above a whisper, but it lands like a promise. “And I don’t forget when something’s mine.”

Jesus.

How is my body this stupid? He opens his mouth and suddenly my ovaries are planning a hostile takeover. I step back because I have to. If I stay that close to him for any longer, I’ll either hit him… or let him wreck me.

And knowing me, it’ll be both. In that order. Then I’ll probably want to hit him again. Just for making me feel this way.

“Newsflash,” I breathe, trying to sound sharp. “I’m not yours.”

That smile he gives me, nearly drops me to my knees. God, help me. That smile has no business looking that good on a man who talks like that and smells like sex and secrets.

“Not yet.”

“I think you should go,” I say, turning around because I’m too fucking overwhelmed to keep standing this close without combusting.

I toss a rag into the bucket and wash my hands at the sink, staring at myself in the mirror over the bar.

I look tired. Not just end-of-shift tired—but trust-nobody, running-on-paranoia tired.

My makeup’s smudged, my hair’s limp from sweat and stress, and my eyes…

they look like they’re waiting for something to go wrong.

I dry my hands and grab my phone, seeing the text from earlier I never looked at.

You know what, fuck this. I’m going to block whoever the fuck this is.

Unknown : Didn’t like the photo? You looked beautiful. Shame you didn’t say thank you.

My blood goes cold and somehow, it’s worse than a threat—because whoever this is doesn’t just want to scare me, they think they know me.

I block the number and shove the phone deep into my bag like that’ll do something. Like it won’t still be there, waiting to gut me the second I look again.

I know walking home right now is probably not one of my brightest ideas.

It’s the kind of dumb-bitch decision that gets you turned into a headline, but it’s late—or early, I guess—and the idea of standing under the bar’s flickering lights waiting for a ride just sounds worse.

I need to get as far away from him as possible.

I need air.

I told Frank I was fine, and I believed it when I said it, but now, out here on the sidewalk with nothing but the buzz of dying streetlamps and the occasional hiss of tires against wet pavement…I’m not so sure anymore.

There’s no one around, and the only thing I can hear is my own footsteps and the sound of my breath trying not to turn jagged. My keys are laced between my fingers, poking out like dull little teeth. I don’t know what I’d do if someone actually came at me—but at least I’d go down swinging.

I pass the corner where the street lights are always flickering and swear I feel someone watching me, but I don’t turn around. Turning around means I think there’s something there, and I’m not playing that game.

By the time I get to my apartment, I’m fumbling with my keys when my phone buzzes again.

Franks : Leaving town early. Final offer—come with me. I’ll keep you safe.

For a split second… I heavily consider it. I want to disappear. I want to feel safe. I want to stop thinking about shadows and text messages and cards left in my bedroom, but I know what going with Frank means.

Me : I can’t.