Page 45 of His To Erase

The house is quiet, and for once, I hope he’s asleep. He doesn’t need to know I’m tiptoeing through his hallways in a hoodie and underwear like some ghost with a grudge.

The floors are cold under my feet, every step threatens to wake the dead—or worse, Steven. The hallway forks, and I decide to take the left instead of the right because knowing my luck, his room is probably down that way, and I don’t have a death wish. Yet.

I’d rather snoop first. Get a lay of the land before I accidentally summon the demon I’m crashing with.

The air shifts the second I pass the stairwell—heavy and charged. A shiver skates down my spine and for a second, I swear I’m being watched but I chalk it up to nerves. And trauma.

And my deeply toxic tendency to snoop through emotionally unavailable men’s houses like I’m not one bad night away from a full psychotic break.

The living room opens up ahead, and the firelight is casting long shadows across the furniture. I pause near the back of the couch, half-expecting to find him draped over it—shirtless, ridiculously broody, maybe a knife glinting in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.

Peak dark romance monster behavior.

But no. Just shadows.

I creep a little farther in, flicking my eyes toward the kitchen as I pass. It’s dark, thank God. Which means there’s no way in hell I’m flipping on a light—not with all these windows.

I lean over the back of the couch, making sure he’s not at the other end—because God forbid I admit I’m just snooping like a nosy little gremlin hunting for red flags. My hair falls forward, and cold air slaps my ass like a reminder I’m not wearing pants.

Whatever, I don’t care. If a girl sneaks around a psychopath’s house and no one sees her ass, did it even happen?

I straighten, still wired, still nosy, and I keep moving.

I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand, and I have that feeling again.

I look around, but no one’s there. There is however, a door tucked behind the main room that’s slightly open, with a soft orange glow, like there’s a fireplace inside there too.

I’m not sure if it’s an invitation or a trap.

I pause. Then sigh.

“I'm absolutely going to open this and regret it,” I whisper to myself. “Honestly, if this ends in murder or orgasm, I probably deserve both. Just saying.”

I push the door open and it creaks.

Of course it does. Shit.

Why wouldn’t his office door sound like the start of a murder documentary.

Everything inside is stupid perfect. It smells like smoke and cedar—and something darker. It smells like him, and it’s making my mouth water. It’s the scent that still clings to my skin, right where he pressed his cock into me. But, I’m going to try not to think about that.

There’s a fire flickering low on the far wall that’s built into the stone like some cozy, masculine wet dream. Unless you’re barefoot and spiraling in your maybe-stalker’s house with no pants on. Then it feels less sexy and more like a potential crime scene.

“Cool,” I mutter. “Of course he leaves fake flames going like this place doubles as a villain lair slash sex dungeon.” Then, quieter, because if I’m going to talk to myself, I probably should whisper.

“I bet Frank’s into that shit too—mood lighting while he fucks your throat and tells you you’re lucky.”

Ew.

The room is immaculate. There are books lined up like they’re scared to disappoint him. His desk is spotless, there’s not even a rogue paperclip to betray he’s human.

It should scare me. Instead, it makes me want to throw something and make a mess.

Who the hell is this guy?

He’s either a psychopath or a Pinterest board with a God complex—and somehow, I’m still wet for him. I still want him to follow through with every dark threat that’s come from that filthy mouth of his.

Who just shows up, wrecks my nervous system, and walks off like he didn’t just burn my sanity to the ground? Now I’m standing in the middle of his perfect, silent office—in my underwear—looking for proof he’s not just hot and damaged.

He’s dangerous.

I wave halfheartedly at the fake fireplace like it’s to blame. “Yeah, okay. Definitely not something I need to be unpacking right now.”

I move toward the desk. “I’m already trespassing. What’s a little felony between strangers?”

When I reach for the drawer, I brace myself—for a booby trap, for disappointment, maybe both. The drawer slides open with a soft click—and something growls behind me.

I spin too fast, slipping a little. My heart is in my throat, and I practically trip over the chair.

“Oh my fuck—”

Before I can launch a book at the intruder or leap onto the desk like a cartoon damsel, the beast lunges—and stops inches from me.

It's massive—black fur and panting like it just ran a marathon straight out of hell. Its eyes are warm and brown and locked on mine like I owe someone money, or maybe an explanation. Its paws are the size of my face, and yet somehow, we just stare at each other like we’re both trying to figure out who the hell let me in.

Then, without a sound, it steps forward and shoves its whole damn face into my stomach, sniffing like I’m a favorite drug.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “You’re precious.”

I drop to my knees like this isn’t enemy territory. I’m going to just pretend I didn’t almost shit myself two seconds ago.

It licks my face and I laugh. Actually laugh.

“You are so lucky I didn’t kick you across the room,” I whisper, ruffling its stupid, velvety ears. “What are you even doing here, huh? You guarding secrets or just here to emotionally disarm intruders?”

The massive dog leans into my hands like its waited all its life for this moment and my chest softens. Everything inside me softens. Because animals don’t lie. Animals also don’t touch you without permission or hold your wrists against trees or walk away like you’re not falling apart.

I scratch its neck and find a collar.

Bernadette.

“Well, B,” I whisper, forehead pressed against her stupidly soft head, “you have no idea how close you came to being traumatized by a girl who’s three mental breakdowns past stable.”

I scratch behind her ears and feel her whole body melt. Which is rich, considering I just tried to mentally file her under “bite risk” and “possible hellhound.”

Jesus. She’s a she. And here I thought she was a boy.

Apparently I just assume anything dangerous and silent must be male.

Sorry, B. My bad. Girl power. God, I really need to sleep—or scream into a void.

I wrap my arms around her, sinking into fur.

At least she doesn’t look at me like I’m a ticking time bomb.

I pull back just enough to cradle her face in my hands and in my best dog mom voice, I coo, “Does he treat you okay? Blink twice if you’re in a hostage situation.”

She licks my nose.

“Shit. He’s got you brainwashed already, huh?”

I scratch behind her ears, shaking my head. “It’s fine. I’ll steal you. I’ll file a custody suit. I’ll change my name to Luna and we’ll move to a tropical beach somewhere."

She huffs like she’s in on the joke, tail thudding once against the floor like a lazy stamp of approval. Of course she gets it. Honestly, if I were a giant shadow-beast living in a house with a part-time psychopath, I’d imprint on the first emotionally unstable woman who didn’t scream too.

God, she probably sees right through me. Dogs always do.

“You wanna come with me?” I whisper. “I’m about to commit some kind of crime. Light breaking and entering, mild felony…emotional damage guaranteed. You in?”

B tilts her head, like she’s analyzing me with expert precision. Her tail gives a twitch, like she’s decided I’m not a threat, and she licks me again.

“Ride or die,” I mutter. “Knew I could count on you.”

I stand, and she follows like she’s always been mine as we move toward the desk.

“You know where he hides the good shit?” I mutter to her. “A folder labeled Girls Who Forget the Wrong Things and Open the Wrong Doors would really streamline this existential crisis.”

I yank the drawer the rest of the way open, bracing for… I don’t know. Knives? Fake passports? A laminated collection of restraining orders? Something that screams I’m dangerous, run faster. But no. Just paper. Boring.

Until I spot an envelope shoved in the back like someone tried to forget it—but couldn’t quite let it go. Which means it’s either a confession or porn.

I glance at Bern. “If I vanish under mysterious circumstances, please inform Sarah I was trying to mind my business and failed spectacularly.”

I pull it free and flip it open.

Not porn.

Not even close.

It’s a bunch of faded, old photos. The first one’s of a girl, who can’t be any older than eighteen, with dirty blonde hair, big eyes, and smiling like it still meant something.

She’s standing in front of a run-down building—somewhere hot, maybe.

Her cheeks are flushed. Her arms are wrapped around a dog, and there’s a man behind her, but he’s turned away.

Something about the way he stands—arms crossed, half in shadow—makes my stomach twist.

I flip to the next photo, then another. She’s in all of them. Laughing. Playing. Asleep in a chair with a book drooped in her lap. One shows her with a scraped knee and someone’s sweatshirt wrapped around her shoulders like armor.

I pause on the last one, on the back, there’s a note in small, neat handwriting.

“L. 12th birthday.”

I freeze.

I don’t know who she is, but I know whoever this girl was… he’s keeping her for a reason. Maybe it’s his daughter? I don’t even know how old he is.

I stare down at the photo in my hand a second longer than I should.

Long enough to feel something catch behind my ribs and stay there—sharp and stupid and real.

My throat goes tight, and I swallow hard.

This isn’t even about me. It’s not supposed to hurt, but it does.

More than I’ll ever admit out loud. More than I’ll admit to myself if I can help it.

This isn’t the kind of darkness I was prepared to find.

I came looking for red flags, skeletons, and a reason to run. Not... this. Not whatever this ache is behind my chest that feels too close to grief.

I slide the photos back into the envelope, fingers clumsy now, like I’m suddenly aware of how much I shouldn’t be touching any of it. I shove it into the drawer like maybe that’ll undo the violation, and yet…part of me still wants to know why it’s here.

Who is she? Why does he have all of these?

I close the drawer slowly this time, careful not to make a sound, like being gentle will erase how careless I’ve been. When I turn, Bernadette’s flopped in the doorway like she’s been guarding me the whole time.

“Great,” I mutter. “Now I’ve emotionally trespassed and made myself sad. Love that for me.”

She pants quietly in response, her tail thudding once like she agrees but doesn’t judge.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who let me snoop.”

I scratch her head once, then pad barefoot back toward the stairs. Everything feels quieter now. Heavier. Like the whole house knows what I just did and is waiting for me to sit with it.

My adrenaline’s gone, along with the curiosity, too. By the time I get back to the guest room, I swear I can still feel the weight of that drawer in my palm, and I want to cry. I crawl back into bed and pull the blanket tight, trying to focus on the firelight leaking under the crack of the door.

I don’t know how long I lay there for—five minutes? Twenty?

Time’s slippery when your stomach’s full of guilt and your head’s packed with someone else’s ghosts.

Then I hear footsteps getting closer to the door. The knob shifts and the door creaks open an inch. And there he is, bare chest, with low-slung sweatpants clinging to his hips like gravity’s got a personal grudge against me.

His muscles are cut and cruel, like someone carved him out of control and violence and left the mercy out on purpose. His tattoos snake down one arm and curl over his ribs—ink and shadow dressed up as art, flickering with the firelight behind him. And his eyes—those fucking eyes—are locked on mine.

He looks like he’s trying to decide whether to drag me to hell or let me keep thinking I’m not already there. He just stands there in the doorway like a goddamn warning, carved out of restraint and barely leashed fury.

And at that moment, I knew.

He knows.

I sit up halfway, throat dry, heartbeat in my ears. Ready to... I don’t even know.

Apologize? Explain? Lie?

I meet his gaze and try not to flinch. After a beat, his voice cuts through the silence. “Stay out of my fucking office.”

The door shuts—but he might as well have slammed it. I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding, but I don’t move. I just stare at the crack under the door, hoping he doesn’t come back.