Page 115 of His To Erase
She’s not just taken, she’s claimed. He touches her like she’s a fucking ornament on display. And she smiles for him and plays the part. Yet, I’ve had that same mouth open against mine. I’ve felt her break and go quiet. I know what she feels like when she gives in.
She can lie to him all she wants—hell, she can lie to herself all she wants, but her body isn’t capable of knowing how to fake it for me and that’s what matters.
The only problem is, she doesn’t need someone like me. She needs someone safe. Someone normal. And I’ve never been any of those fucking things. I’m the thing you send when you want someone erased. The one you hire when pain needs a name. I was trained to vanish. To ruin and leave.
And yet—here I am, holding her ruined lace, with no intention of walking away.
I can feel my cock getting hard again. It’s been hard since I watched her sleeping in my shirt, leg bare, and those fucking lipsof hers parted. She doesn’t even know what she does to me or how close I came to waking her up with my hands around her throat and her name between my teeth.
It’s fucked. I know that.
She needs to remain at arms length, and she needs to stay scared of me.
My phone buzzes on the counter and I grab the device, checking the screen.
Travis : Got something you’re going to want to see. Sending now.
A second ping, and it’s another file. Encrypted—of course. Layers buried under aliases and multiple offshore shell dumps meant to hide a money trail. This is the kind of mess these people specialize in.The kind I used to clean up when I still took contracts.
Only this one wasn’t cleaned up well enough, because it took Travis all of two hours to crack the thing.
I open the file, expecting another shell property or another side account, but it’s not. This isn’t just a routine property transfer.
What the fuck?
What does Puerto Rico, and a private estate have to do with anything? It’s hidden in plain sight with two dead board members and a sealed beneficiary file.There’s no listed name and no signature. But the money trail doesn’t lie. The last three tax payments are tied to a traceable account. An account that leads to a name I didn’t expect.
Rivera.
The trail isn’t perfect, it’s filtered through several accounts that don’t match. But it’s enough to know where it didn’t come from.
I scroll slower this time, thinking I had to have missed something. The next document he sends is a smaller file, half-corrupted, like it’s been passed through too many hands. A bank log of a seven figure transfer.
There’s no signature, but the route is familiar. It’s one of the shells I flagged months ago. I scroll slower, then I see the name on the ledger.
DeLuca, F. C.
Ani
Iwake up choking on a scream I don’t remember making. My sheets are soaked with sweat and twisted around my legs like I was wrestling demons in my sleep—and maybe I was. The nightmare lingers, slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I try to grab it.
I just remember bits of it. Blood. A scream. Another useless flash of an almost-memory that tells me nothing and leaves everything wrong behind.
My chest heaves, as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and try not to scream again. It’s like my brain’s staging a horror movie on loop with no subtitles, and I’m supposed to guess the plot based on jump scares alone.
I’m so sick of having the same nightmare over and over again. There’s so much I don’t remember and it’s so frustrating.
Cool air skates over my bare legs, and it takes me a second to realize I’m still in Steven’s shirt from last night.Whatever, it doesn’t mean anything.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, silently begging the universe to tell me what the hell is wrong with me. Frank’s done everything right—he opens my doors, compliments me, and always pays the bill with a charming smile. He’s already made himself comfortable as the main character of my life. I even let him kiss me in the car, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when a good guy takes you out.
But no matter how hard I try to want him, my mind always goes right back to someone else.
Someone I don’t even know. Who looks at me like he already owns me.
God, I hate myself.
I sit up slowly, as I drag a hand through my tangled hair while I look around for my underwear. They’re not on the floor, not draped over the chair, not tucked under the corner of the duvet where it would be if I’d undressed like a normal, functioning human being. I frown, scanning the room again, heartbeat ticking up despite how stupid it feels.
