Page 6 of His To Erase

There’s black ink curling up his arms that coil like smoke, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his fitted black shirt like sin dressed up as art. And it’s the worst kind of ink—the kind that looks personal. The kind that makes you want to ask questions you have no business knowing the answers to.

More ink licks at his knuckles, trailing over his fingers—veins made of violence and precision. It’s all so intricate and brutal. It’s beautiful in the way a loaded gun is beautiful. It shouldn’t be sexy. Yet, it is anyway.

And then there’s his jawline.

Jesus.

It’s a crime scene.

It’s cut from something cruel, ancient and holy, shadowed with just enough scruff to make him look like the reason your mother warned you to never leave the house in short skirts.

All I can think—because of course I can’t stop thinking—is how it would feel between my thighs.

Hot. Rough. And unforgiving.

And yeah, maybe I need therapy. But this? This is definitely not the cure.

My stomach clenches. Jesus Christ, Anianne. Pull it together.

This is not a swooning situation, but the way his smooth, golden skin looks is making me drool. It has nothing to do with sun exposure and everything to do with the kind of genetics that should be illegal.

And then—there are his eyes.

God.

His eyes.

They’re the kind of dark that swallows light and doesn’t apologize. Like a goddamn threat.

His lashes are criminally long, just to add insult to injury. All soft edges wrapped around sharp intention.

He looks like the kind of man who clocks exits, memorizes weaknesses, and has already mentally figured out what people to remove from the equation in case shit goes sideways.

And yet—they settle on me. And stay there.

Like I’m the one he’s already decided is going to ruin his night. Or maybe he’s going to ruin mine. He’s giving off that vibe—the I-could-kill-everyone-in-this-building-and-still-be-home-by-midnight vibe.

The kind of energy that should send me running.

And the worst part is, I hate that it works on me.

Because it shouldn’t. It should terrify me.

But instead, I’m standing here wondering how those hands would feel pressed against my throat.

Which is exactly the kind of thought that makes me question every life decision I’ve ever made.

Everything about him screams, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. And yet, here he is. In a fucking library, like he belongs here. He’s without a doubt the most dangerous fucking thing in this entire building.

I shouldn’t be memorizing the details, shouldn’t be imagining what the ink beneath his shirt looks like, where it stops, how far it goes, how much of him is covered in it.

But I am.

And when my gaze flicks back up to his face, those black eyes are waiting. The tilt at the corner of his mouth suggests he caught every second of my mental detour into why-is-this-stranger-the-hottest-walking-danger-sign-I’ve-ever-seen territory.

It’s not quite a smirk, but not quite a glare either. It’s just a quiet, pointed look that says, are you going to answer my question—or just keep staring?

Shit.

I blink once—maybe twice—then force my face into something neutral.

Unbothered.

I’m going to pretend I didn’t just get caught undressing him with my eyes while my brain short-circuited over his murder vibes and bone structure.

Totally casual.

I clear my throat, praying that too much time didn’t pass. Because if he’s the type to keep score, I just lost the first round.

“That’s an interesting assumption.”

At least my voice is steady. Thank fuck. Because nothing else about me is.

He watches me, and he’s giving me the kind of look that should make me nervous, only it doesn’t.

“Am I wrong?”

No hesitation. No shift in tone. Just a quiet, confident push.

My fingers tighten slightly around the book I forgot I was still holding.

"No comment."

The corner of his mouth twitches like I amused him, but it’s gone almost instantly. Replaced with something cool and direct.

“I’m looking for a book.”

Cool. Me too. Preferably one that explains what the hell is happening to my pulse.

I cross my arms and lean a hip against the cart, pretending I’m not bracing for whatever comes next.

“Funny. That is what libraries are for.”

His brows lift slightly. Which is rich, considering the man radiates brooding antihero energy with a side of ‘I bury bodies for fun.’

“You always this helpful?”

I tilt my head, my smile all teeth.

“Only with people who say please.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and even, before tilting his head slightly. “Where’s your philosophy section?”

Philosophy? Really?

“You don’t look like the type to be in here searching for ancient wisdom.”

Which is code for, You look like the type to punch someone in a bar, not quote Plato in a library aisle.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at me with that same calm, unreadable intensity like he’s letting me talk myself into a corner—then deciding whether he wants to follow me in and set the place on fire.

Finally, with zero inflection and absolutely no remorse, he says, “And you don’t look like the type to judge people by their covers.”

Touché.

Fucking ouch.

I exhale through my nose and reach for the cart, mostly so I don’t say something stupid like wanna elaborate, Socrates?

“Come on,” I mutter, turning. “I’ll show you.”

I lead him through the aisles, trying to focus on my steps and not the ridiculous awareness prickling along my spine like he’s following too close.

He isn’t. I checked.

But his presence is too much. Too intense for a room that’s usually filled with nothing but whispers and the occasional rustle of pages.

I stop at the end of the row and gesture to the shelf.

“Here. All the wisdom of the ages at your disposal.”

He steps forward, hands in his pockets like he’s not a threat at all. Which is exactly what makes him one as he scans the titles—sharp and unhurried, like he’s committing them to memory instead of actually reading.

He nods once. “Thanks.”

Just lethal calm dressed up as casual interest.

I exhale, like maybe I’ve been holding my breath this whole damn time, and push the cart forward without looking back. Whatever that was, I’m not unpacking it. Not today.

I finish the rest of my shift like nothing happened.

Or at least, I try to.

Because an hour later, he’s still here—tucked into one of the deep leather chairs by the windows like he’s a regular or something.

He’s got a book in hand, with his legs stretched out, and his posture is casual in the way that screams deliberate. Like someone who wants to look relaxed.

There’s a sharpness to him.

A coiled stillness.

I tell myself I don’t care. I repeat it like a chant. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll believe it.

It’s none of my business if some heavily tattooed, vaguely divine-looking stranger decides to spend his afternoon pretending to read a book he hasn’t looked at since I showed him the damn shelf.

It’s not weird.

Not weird that he hasn’t turned a page or moved in an hour.

Definitely not my problem.

And yet—when I push the empty cart back toward the front desk and pass by his chair again, I look. And there he is. Same chair. Same book. Same unreadable expression.

His posture is all bored disinterest—but his eyes are moving. Too slow to be skimming, but too fast to be reading.

I frown.

Now I know what I’m looking for. He’s not reading at all, he’s waiting. But I have no idea who he’s waiting for, or what.

Something about him doesn’t add up. There’s no way he’s actually here for the philosophy section. Hell, he’s probably not here for the books at all.

Again, not my problem.

I force my gaze forward and shove down whatever weird, crawling instinct is trying to claw its way up the back of my spine like a warning.

He’s just some guy with tattoos and too much presence. He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last.

I keep pushing the cart through the nonfiction section like I’m not seconds away from glancing back again like a crazy person. When I finally loop back around, he’s gone.

The chair is empty and the space he took up now feels too quiet. Like something was ripped out of it.

The book he wasn’t reading is still there—abandoned on the side table, spine cracked but untouched. Like it’s been sitting there collecting dust for years instead of the last two hours.

There’s no sign of him.

No evidence he was even real.

I stare at the space for a beat too long, then shake my head and move on.

Shift change is seamless, I trade the quiet, book-dust air of the library for the smoky, whiskey-laced hum of the bar.

The low murmur of conversation is already picking up speed—punctuated by the sharp clink of glasses, the hiss of a soda gun, and the occasional scrape of chairs against concrete floors.

All the usual signs that tonight’s going to be loud and full of people who want attention they haven’t earned.

I tie my apron at the waist, rolling my shoulders back, and brace for another round of bullshit with a forced smile and zero patience—especially since Sarah took the night off for a date and left me to fend off the circus alone.

My gaze happens to flick toward the door every few minutes, scanning for a certain too-tall, too-inked stranger with those black hole eyes and a silence I haven’t stopped thinking about all day.

I know the chance of him coming in here is practically none, but I don’t care.

I’d sell my right ovary to see him again.

Only, he doesn’t show. But the second I step behind the bar, the real problem of the night makes himself known.

Frank.

He strolls in like he’s the damn headliner. His swagger just shy of a parody, grin already cocked like he knows I’m going to be annoyed and likes it.

Which—he’s not wrong.

Honestly, the only thing more persistent than Frank is my desire to hit him with a bottle and get away with it.

He slides onto his usual stool—far too comfortably—and smirks like he’s been waiting all day for this moment.

Spoiler… I haven’t.

He taps his fingers against the bar, steady and rhythmic, like he thinks it’s charming. I still don’t know what he does for work. Every time I ask, he gives me a different answer—some vague one-liner about consulting or investments or “owning things.”

Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.

Yet, here he is again. Same stool, same cologne, and the same look that says you’ll give in eventually.

I don’t plan to, but the universe has a twisted sense of humor lately.

"You look like you missed me."

I grab a glass, already reaching for the whiskey. "You look delusional."

He chuckles, settling into his seat like he has nowhere else to be. "That’s not a no."

I arch a brow, pouring his drink. "It’s not a yes, either. It’s a go away."

His grin is easy, like he enjoys being told no just to prove it doesn’t matter. "You’d be bored without me."

I slide the glass across the bar, unimpressed. "I’d be thriving without you."

Frank lifts his drink, taking a slow sip, watching me over the rim. "We both know that’s a lie."

I roll my eyes, setting another order on the counter for the server. "You’re awfully smug for someone who hasn’t won a damn thing."

He tilts his head, that same slow, infuriatingly confident smirk playing at his lips. "Haven’t I?"

I cross my arms. "Nope. You’re still here, still asking and still convinced this is going somewhere."

He takes a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of his glass. "You’d miss me if I stopped showing up."

I snort. "Like I'd miss food poisoning."

His chuckle is deep and unbothered. "Well, lucky for you, I’ll be gone for a bit. I have to go out of town for a few weeks."

I blink. Surprised. Not that he’s leaving—just that I didn’t hear about it until now. He loves talking about himself.

I school my face into relief, placing a hand dramatically over my chest. “A Christmas miracle. I knew if I prayed hard enough, the universe would answer."

Frank just shakes his head, tipping his glass in my direction. "Try not to be too heartbroken, sweetheart."

I flash him a deadpan look. "Oh, don’t worry. I plan on celebrating."

His smirk doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens. Something a little too knowing flickers behind his eyes as he sets his drink down with an easy, practiced grace. "You enjoy it while it lasts. Because when I get back, I’m taking my girl on another date."

My girl?

I blink, a slow burn of irritation crawling up my spine.

Not because of the way he says it—like it’s fact, like this is already a done deal—but because some part of me expected it.

Of course he can’t just accept the fact that I haven’t done or said anything after our first date to lead him to believe I wanted another one. I mean, yeah I had a good time, but I’m not convinced he’s boyfriend material.

I cross my arms, tilting my head. "Bold of you to assume I’ll still be here."

He just hums, pushing up from his seat, stretching like he has all the time in the world. "Oh, you’ll be here."

The confidence in his voice grates against my nerves like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s already seen how this plays out, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up.

I huff, reaching for a glass to clean, forcing my focus anywhere but on him. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t do repeats."

Frank leans in slightly, voice dropping to something just low enough to be dangerous. "We both know that’s a lie."

My stomach tightens.

I grip the glass a little too hard, rolling my eyes. This conversation needs to be over before I start questioning things I shouldn’t. "You gonna drink that or just sit here making grand declarations about a future that doesn’t exist?"

He chuckles, standing to his full height. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

And then, with one last cocky smirk, he downs the rest of his whiskey, sets the glass down with a deliberate slowness, and strides around the bar like he owns it.

A few heads turn as he passes—women watching him like he’s something worth chasing. Maybe he is and I’m just immune to him.

Before I can react, before I can even process what he’s about to do, he leans in. His hand brushes my waist with a light, passing touch, before he presses a slow, infuriatingly confident kiss to my cheek.

My breath catches—just for a second—before my brain catches up, and I jerk back.

He just chuckles, standing to his full height, completely unbothered by the way I glare up at him.

His eyes flick over me, satisfied, before he murmurs, "See you in a few weeks, baby."

Baby?

My fingers curl into fists, heat prickling at my skin—and not from the kiss, but from the audacity.

I hate how smoothly he says it. The bar door swings shut behind him and I exhale, trying to force my pulse back to normal.