Page 48 of His To Erase

Steven

She’s on my couch, wrapped in my blanket, eating my food, and watching my screen like she belongs here.

That should have pissed me off. It should’ve switched something cold and clean in my head—like it always used to.

I don’t know when, or even how, but this reckless, infuriating girl started slipping under my skin like a habit I didn’t remember picking up.

She was a problem I should’ve solved with silence or violence.

Something easy. Permanent. Instead, I want to bend her over the fucking kitchen counter and remind her who she belongs to—who she’s always belonged to—even if she doesn’t know it yet.

I’m standing here like a fucking ghost in my own house, listening to her talk to the dog like it’s her therapist. She just walked in, peeled back a part of my life I’ve kept buried six feet deep—and didn’t flinch. Worse—she looked at the photos like it meant something.

I could see it on her face, it was almost like she recognized the kind of pain that settles into your bones and makes a home.

I should be angry, but all I feel is this slow, gnawing heat in my chest and this need to claim her so hard she never questions where she belongs again.

As if seeing that hoodie ride up wasn’t already handing me the perfect, filthy view of the ass last night.

I wanted to leave her bruised and shaking, but it took everything in me not to shove her face-first into the cushions, rip that hoodie up over her hips, and fuck every last Frank-soaked delusion out of her reckless, pretty mouth.

Even now, it’s taking every last ounce of control I have not to drag her to the floor, shove my hand between those trembling thighs, and show her what happens to girls who forget which monsters they’re supposed to fear.

When she didn’t wake up this morning, I stayed in the office, making calls I needed to make, and kept the plan moving. But I saw her on the cameras—barefoot, half-conscious, and wandering into my kitchen like a girl who’s never been fed properly.

It was infuriating. And fucking adorable.

The second she opened the fridge and saw my prepped meals, her whole body slumped—like she didn’t know whether to be turned on or betrayed. Her mouth would say betrayal, but her thighs would argue otherwise.

I glance over, and there she is—curled up on my couch like it’s her throne. She’s barefoot, and probably braless, wrapped in my blanket like she fucking belongs there.

She lifts the fork to her mouth and hums when the bite hits—like it slipped out before she could swallow it. And fuck me, my cock doesn’t care if she’s moaning over chicken or choking on it. It hears the sound and gets possessive.

I dry my hands, and my fingers tighten in the towel until the bones crack. She’s not supposed to be here. Not like this. Not with Frank’s chain still dangling from her throat like she chose it.

I shove the sound down. The one that’s been clawing at the back of my throat since the second she walked into this house and made it feel like something I could lose.

I toss the towel on the counter and step forward. Her shoulders tense, and her thighs shift like they’re already bracing for something. She feels me. Even when I haven’t touched her.

And when I finally stop in front of her with my arms crossed and my shadow falling across her like it’s got a mind of its own—she lifts her head.

Those fucking eyes. That mouth. And that wild hair looks like she just got fucked all night, is making it really hard to stay on track.

My shirt’s hitched up over her thighs, and the neckline is slipping just enough to flash the chain at her throat—Frank’s chain.

Still sitting there like a goddamn claim he didn’t earn.

Does she not realize how close she is to having it ripped off and replaced with something that screams mine.

The plate’s still in her lap, clutched like a weapon she doesn’t know how to use, and she looks up at me like I might ruin her. And all I can think is—you already are.

“You comfortable yet?” I murmur.

Her brow lifts like she's deciding whether to flip me off or pretend she’s unaffected. She shovels another bite into her mouth instead, all brat and no self-preservation, chewing slow, like it's a challenge. New fantasy unlocked. Watching her eat is like a wet dream.

I tilt my head slightly, because if she thinks I can't see the way her legs keep pressing tighter, or the way her chest hitches every time I get too close—she's wrong.

I’m a trained killer. I notice everything.

Including the way her breathing stutters—shallow, and quick. I watch a flush creep up her throat, and I’d put money on the way her nipples are probably drawn tight under my shirt. She’s trying to hide a reaction she doesn’t even know how to understand.

She has no idea what it’s doing to me or what she looks like, curled up here like she belongs to me. That mouth was made to say my name.

I lean down, forcing her to tip her chin up to keep my gaze. Good. I want her off-balance.

“Do you always make yourself at home in a man’s house,” I murmur, my voice low enough to scrape, “or just the ones who haven’t fucked you yet?”

She chokes. Beautifully.

The fork hits the plate with a sharp clang as her spine jolts, fire snapping in her eyes like she wants to claw my face off.

There she is.

Her temper flares as she straightens her spine in that silent challenge I’ve come to crave. That bratty mouth is already forming a comeback she doesn’t have the teeth to finish. I love feisty Ani, once she’s not mad, I’ll have to find more reasons to piss her off again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps, lifting her chin in that stubborn way that makes me want to ruin her composure all over again.

“Don’t pout, sweetheart,” I murmur, my gaze dragging across the flush blooming down her throat. “You started this.”

She opens her mouth to spit something back—fire and venom, probably—but I cut her off before she gets the first syllable out.

I curl my fingers around the edge of the couch, right next to her thigh—close enough to crowd, but not enough to touch. She has to feel the heat pouring off me, but she keeps pretending she doesn’t. I love that she keeps pretending I don’t make her nervous.

I lower my voice, “You think I didn't see you last night? Bent over my couch, legs spread, with your ass bare, mouthing off about Frank like you forgot where you were?”

She freezes.

And fuck if that doesn't make my cock throb behind my sweats. I lean in close enough to smell the fear and the want fighting for space on her skin.

“Keep running that pretty mouth, pretty girl and I’ll make sure you remember exactly who you're begging for next time you spread your legs.”

Her whole body goes still. Except for her thighs, they clench. Hard. And I feel it like a punch to the gut. She wants it. She might hate that she wants it, but she still wants it.

I straighten slowly, letting the silence between us coil tighter, until it feels like I’m breathing her in.

She glares up at me like she’d rather claw my eyes out than admit what her body’s screaming for.

But I see the way her pulse ticks at her throat, and the way her breath catches.

She’s one push away from snapping. She wants me to be the one to do it.

Good. I want the fight. I want the bite. I want her so fucking ruined, so raw and wrecked, she forgets who she thought she belonged to. Forgets his name. Forgets her own. Forgets everything except the way I make her break.

She shoves the plate off her lap, setting it on the table so hard, it sounds like her composure shattering. Then she stands—chest rising, and her feet planted like she thinks she’s still got something to defend.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” she snaps, fire flashing behind her eyes.

I smile. “I know enough.”

“You don’t know shit,” she bites, voice rising. “You don’t know what he makes me feel—”

She cuts herself off.

Too late. I see the crack in her armor. The shake in her voice. The flicker of fear when she realizes the leash around her throat might not belong to who she thinks it does.

She thinks she’s hiding it—covering the fracture with rage and fake indifference like I haven’t made a living out of spotting the weak point before I strike.

I tilt my head, the answer already written across her face and she gives me another one without even realizing it. That pause. That silence. That twitch in her fingers when she flinches away from the truth.

Frank has his hooks in her. I knew that. But now I know where, and now I know how to cut deeper.

She backpedals. Trying to pull the mask back on while I peel it off with nothing but proximity. I move in, close enough to cage her, and her spine meets the wall.

I brace one hand beside her head and lean in until I can feel the lie on her tongue.

“You want to finish that sentence, Dear?”

I keep my voice low, designed to get under her skin. And it works—because her breathing goes ragged, and her chest continues to rise too fast. She’s unraveling and I’m cataloging every twitch, every shift, every goddamn stutter of her pulse.

If I touched her right now, I know exactly what I’d find—she’d be so fucking wet for me.

He might have her, but I’m the one who can make her forget.

I don’t need to chase her. I just need to wait for the moment she begs to be caught and by the looks of it, she’s not far off.

Her tongue flicks across her bottom lip, and my cock throbs so hard it’s fucking painful. I can feel my balls tightening at the thought of being buried in her.

“You gonna tell me?” I say, dragging my gaze down her face, noting the frantic flutter of her pulse. “Or do you want me to make you talk?”

She glares up at me—and fuck, she’s beautiful like this.

“You think I’m scared of you?” she spits.

“No.” I step in closer, keeping my voice low and deadly. “You’re scared of yourself.”

She inhales sharply, but keeps her lips pressed tight. I can see violence in her eyes, before she tries covering it up.