Page 144 of His To Erase
I blink, once. Twice. My head feels like it’s filled with packing peanuts, and my body aches in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with overfeeling.
I shove the blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, squinting around the room like it personally wronged me. Bernadette is still sprawled across the floor like a bodyguard with zero ambition.
I grab my bag from where I dropped it last night, and start rummaging like a raccoon who just found a locked trash can. Wallet. Keys. Lip balm. A crumpled receipt from a gas station chicken nugget crime I never should’ve committed. Where the fuck is—ah. My phone.
Dead, of course.
I plug it in at the wall and sit there cross-legged, blinking against the harsh light while it boots up like it’s doing me a favor. The screen finally flickers to life.
3:13 p.m.
I stare at it like it’s lying to me.
“Nope,” I mutter. “Absolutely not. That can’t be right.”
Bernadette yawns like she agrees, and I scrub my hands over my face. I’ve never slept this long in my life. Not even during the lowest points. Not even after… everything. Though back then, it was mostly fear that kept me from sleeping too long. Dragging a hand through my hair, I groan, of course the one time I emotionally break down and accidentally form a traumabond with a dog, I crash for fourteen hours straight like it’s a personality trait.
At least I have the next few days off. Which was supposed to mean apartment hunting. Maybe even checking out that bookshop space I still haven’t admitted I probably can’t afford. But instead, I’m here, in Steven’s house, with his tattooed abs burned into the back of my skull like a crime I didn’t mean to witness.
I finally open my phone. Four missed calls—one from Sloane, three from Sarah, and a handful of texts from Frank.
The most recent one is from this morning.
Frank: You okay? Haven’t heard from you. Wish you came with, but if you need anything, you know I’ll take care of it.
I stare at the screen, and my stomach curls like it knows something I don’t. Frank’s always good at saying the right thing. Charming. Polished. Perfectly timed concern that reads like affection until you look a little closer. Or at least until the words start to feel like velvet ropes—soft, but wrapped around your throat before you even realize you’re being tied up.
I don’t answer. Instead, I scroll through the missed calls from Sarah—no voicemail, but she did leave a text.
Sarah: Hey—where the hell did you go? Can you call me when you come back from the dead!
I almost smile. Instead, I toss the phone on the bed and scrub a hand through my hair like that’ll fix anything. I should text Frank back, but I’m not going to right now. I definitely shouldn’t be in this house with a man who terrifies me and makes mythighs ache every time I think about what happened in the woods. But here I am.
Barefoot. Hungover on trauma. And fighting off a feral crush like it’s not actively ruining me.
I pick the phone back up, thumbs already moving before I can second-guess it.
Me: Not dead. Just emotionally bankrupt. Will explain over coffee if I don’t set myself on fire first.
Her typing bubbles pop up instantly.
Sarah: Oh thank GOD. I thought maybe Frank locked you in a basement or Steven turned out to be a cult leader with a thing for knives.Wait. Is that still on the table?
Me: Honestly? If he is, I’m ready to drink the Kool-Aid and let him carve his name into me. This man had me moaning and crying on his floor in the same 12-hour window. I’m not okay.
Sarah: OH MY GOD. WHAT. Who are you? Where are you? Are you safe or just dickmatized? Because one of those is fixable and one is how cults start.
Me: I think I’m both. Also there’s a dog now. Bernadette. I think she imprinted on me. So I’m emotionally adopted and slightly possessed.
Sarah: You’re clearly not okay. But like in a way that’s really on brand for you. Call me before he tattoos his initials on your soul.
I laugh, putting my phone back on the bed and drag myself out of the room, wearing nothing but a T-shirt I found in the closet and the same leggings I left my apartment in. I need food more than I need a reality check.
The hallway opens into the kitchen, and I brace myself to see him there—towering, shirtless, and brooding over a cup of coffee like a warning carved out of stone. That whole tattooed menace with a morning voice that ruins lives energy.
But he’s not there. The kitchen is empty.
Relief floods me, followed immediately by the kind of gnawing, unholy hunger that makes me want to bite the damn countertop. So, I start rifling through cabinets, expecting to find something unhealthy. A cookie, chips, a singular sad granola bar, anything. Only I find nothing. Just organized jars and alphabetized spices like this man is one spreadsheet away from villainy.
