Page 68 of His To Erase

Steven

Idon’t make a habit of fucking the same mistake twice. The words echo like gunfire in my skull.

I meant Frank. I meant everything I’ve done to get close enough to put that bastard in the ground. I meant the years I’ve wasted chasing ghosts through blood and shadows, only to find myself right back where I started.

But it didn’t matter what I meant. Not when she looked at me like I’d just spit in her face. Not when her expression went from fury to disbelief—then to something that felt like fucking betrayal.

I was out tracking down a lead—one who liked to talk big until his face met the pavement.

It took too long to get anything useful out of him, and when he finally cracked, all he said was, “She gave him something that led him straight to you.” I was half-listening when she started talking to me, still hearing that line on repeat in my head.

I didn’t just piss her off. I lost her.

I’m sitting at my desk with my elbows planted and my jaw clenched so tight it aches. The blinds are half-drawn and sunlight slices through the dust in sharp, perfect lines. I know where she’s going, she said she had a showing at some place she was interested in.

So I let her go, even though I know I shouldn’t have.

I should’ve followed her the second she walked out the front door with murder in her eyes, but I didn’t. I was waiting for something I needed in my hands, before I made my next move. Something that could finally tie in the last piece of this whole fucked-up puzzle.

So I stayed.

And now—she’s fucking gone.

I lean back in my chair and pull up the feed on my monitor.

The camera outside her apartment flickers to life.

She came home, changed clothes, watered the plants like it meant something to her, then she stood at the window for almost ten minutes, just..

. thinking. Then she left again, walking out like it was any other day.

Then—nothing.

I know she went to the listing.

But after that, nothing. No texts. No calls. No location ping. Not even the usual breadcrumb trail she leaves behind when she’s pretending she’s fine.

Just silence. Something’s up. It’s too clean to be an accident. I checked the tracker again, and sure enough, it’s glitching. It’s the same lag I noticed when she left her apartment. I thought it was a bad signal. Now I’m not so sure.

I was already halfway to the door—boots on, gun holstered, and my keys in hand—when my phone buzzed.

Ani: I’ll talk to you when I can think straight.

Like that would ever be a fucking option.

She thinks she needs space? I’m the only one who’s kept her alive this long. If she’s not running, then why the fuck does it feel like I’m chasing her all over again? She doesn’t get to disappear behind her words like that and expect me to wait around. Not when I already know where this is headed.

She wants space? She’ll get about five more minutes of it.

Then I’m coming.

And God help anyone standing in my way.

I force myself to stay still and wait, to breathe through the instinct screaming at me to burn the world down and drag her back with my bare hands.

That’s why I sent Travis. Because if I chased her myself—I wouldn’t stop. There isn’t a line I wouldn’t cross. I’ve never lost a mark, never lost control, but this isn’t about vengeance anymore.

If Frank thinks he can put his hands on her—keep her—I open the drawer, fingers curling tight around the handle of the blade inside. Let him fucking try.

The cabinet slams shut louder than I mean, and Bern whines behind me. My phone’s been silent for hours and I’ve already circled the cabin three times trying not to punch through the goddamn walls.

I cross the room, picking up her empty mug like it might hold a clue or explain why every second since she left feels like a fuse burning straight down to detonation.

Either way, someone’s bleeding when I find her.

My phone buzzes. Finally.

Travis: Got eyes on her.

Travis: She’s with him.

I grip the edge of the counter, hard enough to make the wood groan. She went to him?

No. There’s no fucking way.

She wouldn’t—but the silence on the line says everything I need to know. Of course she fucking did.

She ran straight to the devil the second she felt cornered. Right into the arms of the man I’ve been trying to bury for years.

I told her. I fucking told her not to leave. Not to trust anyone. Especially not him. I’d practically been screaming it at her.

I shove back from the counter, the chair clattering to the floor behind me and my vision narrows.

Me: Where?

Travis: Jet landed in Taos about ten min ago.

A bitter laugh escapes my throat, sharp and violent.

I dig my knuckles into my temple because this shouldn’t matter.

Except it does, because she wasn’t supposed to look at me like that, she wasn’t supposed to let me in.

Fuck, she wasn’t supposed to crawl—and whimper—and say my fucking name like it meant something.

I should’ve stuck to the plan.

Instead, I let her get under my fucking skin—and now she’s in the hands of the one man I came here to bury.

Me: If he touches her, the plan is out the window and I kill him.

Travis: Thought she was just leverage?

Me: She was.

Me: Until she wasn’t.

Travis: Want me to move?

Me: No. I need you where you are.

Me: I’ll handle it.

I’m already dragging the duffel from beneath the couch. It’s my secondary kit—clean, fully loaded, and always ready to go.

Frank wants to play house? I’ll burn the whole fucking estate to ash.

I toss the bag onto the counter and unzip it, taking inventory of every weapon. False IDs, glock, blades I haven’t touched since Prague, and even some vials I swore I’d never use again.

But this isn’t a hit.

It’s a war.

Travis: Dinner just started. Candlelight and everything.

My jaw ticks hard enough to crack.

Me: Keep eyes on her. Do not engage.

Travis: You think she went willingly?

Me: Doesn’t fucking matter.

I slam the door behind me and stalk to the car because if he thinks she’ll forget what it felt like to crawl for me, come for me, and scream for me—he’s more delusional than I gave him credit for.

She’s mine.

Even if I have to remind her who she fucking belongs to.

I’m halfway to the car with the keys clenched in one hand, when my phone lights up again with an incoming call.

“What.”

“You really don’t have a tracker on her?”

I stop walking.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Travis laughs. “Don’t tell me she’s been practically living in your house and you didn’t tag her.”

I snort. “I tagged her the first night I followed her home.” Then sharper— “I went through her phone while she was asleep. Set it up and scrubbed—.”

Of course I fucking tagged her, she’s been wired since day one.

Then it hits me. Not that she’s tagged, but that I’ve been looking at the wrong shit.

I only ever checked what mattered to me.

To the mission, and to Frank. I flagged the messages that mentioned his name, scanned for keywords, patterns, and connections. Everything that would tie her to him.

I didn’t look at anything else. I didn’t think I had to because I was so fucking sure she was just collateral.

A low curse slips from my mouth as I hang up the phone, rage already boiling under my skin. I storm to the drawer and yank it open, pulling out the cloned copy of her phone.

I open the messaging app—this time, no filters. No search terms. No tunnel vision. It’s all here.

Thread after thread of quiet fucking panic. Unsaved drafts. Notes she never sent. All the texts between her and Sarah. Deleted photos.

Then I see several messages from an unknown number.

“You still sleep with the light on. You’re hiding from monsters. They’re coming anyway. You don’t remember what happened, but I do.”

“You can play house all you want. But you know who you really belong to.”

Rage slams through me and my vision goes white around the edges.

Fuck.

These messages aren’t just from someone watching her. They’re threats, and they’re intentional. Personal. And I let her walk straight into Frank’s arms thinking I was the biggest danger.

I drop into the chair at my desk, eyes locked on the glowing screen while my pulse hammers behind my teeth. The burn under my skin isn’t anger anymore—it’s fire.

Someone thinks she’s theirs, and touched what’s mine.

I pull up the tracking app and still can’t get anything on where she’s at. Either she found out it was there, or he did.

Fuck.

I don’t care how many smiles he’s fed her. How many silk sheets or lies or dresses he’s tried to put her in. I’m going to carve the truth into his ribs. And when I drag her out of that gilded cage, she’s going to remember what it means to belong to someone.

I slam my fist down and call Travis. He picks up on the second ring.

“Yes, dear.”

My voice is ice. “I need eyes back on her. Now.”

“She’s still at the restaurant—same place she was ten minutes ago.” He exhales. “You want me to move in?”

“No,” I snap. “Stay the fuck where you are. Keep eyes on all three of them.”

A pause.

“You think she’s lying to you?”

“I think,” I growl, “she’s been lied to so many fucking times, she doesn’t know what the truth is anymore.”

All I hear is the typing he’s doing in the background.

“He knows something.” My fingers curl into a fist. “And if he lays one hand on her, I’ll bury him next to the last man who thought he owned her.”

Travis lets out a low whistle. “That bad?”

I don’t answer. My eyes stay locked on the last message she got, glowing on the screen.

You know who you really belong to.

“She’s been marked,” I say finally. “Before any of this started.”

“How does he tie into this?”

I exhale through my nose. “I think he’s trying to finish what someone else started. Or maybe he doesn’t even know the full story—maybe he’s just a pawn. But if she’s in his hands now, it means one of two things.”

“And neither of them’s good.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause, and I can tell he’s trying to be careful, “You think she’s keeping it a secret?”