Page 164 of His To Erase
The silence pulls tight between us. “So what came before Denver?”
“I lived on the coast,” I murmur. “It’s like there’s this whole stretch of time I watched happen instead of living through it. Sometimes it feels like that life belonged to someone else.”
He doesn’t respond. But something in the way he’s staring at me makes my skin prickle.
“What happened there?”
His voice is soft, but there’s nothing gentle about it. The movie’s over now, and the credits are rolling in silence. I feel raw and exposed. I also feel cornered, so I do the only thing I know how to do—snap back before I bleed too much.
“Wow,” I mutter, pushing the blanket off my legs. “Didn’t realize I signed up for a therapy session. You moonlight as Dr. Phil, or is this just how you flirt?”
I can feel his jaw lock from across the couch.
“I ask a question, and you get defensive,” he says flatly. “Interesting.”
“Oh, sorry,” I bite, standing up. “Was I supposed to sob into your lap and hand over my trauma like a good little patient?” I fold my arms, turning toward the kitchen. “I’m getting food.”
Ani
How is it that this man can make me wetter than a whore in church and ready to punch him in the face five seconds later? Something in my chest pulls tight, but I don’t turn around. Not giving him the satisfaction.
I storm into the kitchen and start yanking open drawers like I belong here, even though I haven’t got a damn clue where anything is. The first one’s full of knives. Cool. That’s comforting. I make a mental note of that, in case I need one later. The second drawer has a bunch of batteries and zip ties. Which is slightly alarming. The third just has a single loose rubber band and a pack of gum that expired two years ago.
I blink at it. “Jesus. What are you, a serial killer or a Boy Scout?”
Still no answer from behind me.
“Not even a protein bar or some cookies?” I mutter, slamming it shut. “What kind of maniac lives off rage and raw intimidation?”
I try to focus on finding food. I need something—anything—to do with my hands. I open the fridge and grab the first few things that look remotely edible—lunch meat, mustard, and a jar of what looks like pickles.
I mutter something half-feral under my breath as I toss the jar and the half-crushed bread onto the counter. I reach up—fast, too fast—and that’s when it happens.
The cabinet above me swings open, and crack—“Son of a bitch.”
My skull snaps back and the jar slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a wet, mocking splat. It’s all over my foot, the floor, and the cabinet. The crime scene of my dignity.
I just blink at it, dazed. Maybe if I stare long enough, it’ll take itself back. I can tell by the smell that they definitely weren’t pickles. Not even close. “Is that... sauerkraut?” I mutter, wrinkling my nose.
I grab a paper towel swiping at the mess and somehow, I make it worse. Now everything’s wet.Perfect.
I’m mid-wipe, muttering curses, when I feel him behind me. He steps into the kitchen, dragging his gaze over the splattered mess, then up to me and my flushed, mustard-footed mess.
“Of course you’d break something,” he mutters.
That’s it. Is he fucking kidding me?
I hurl the dirty paper towel at his chest without hesitation. “Go fuck yourself,” I bite out. “With a butter knife.”
It hits dead center and sticks—right over his chest. He looks down at it, then back up at me. No smile, not even a laugh.
Fuck.
Is he going to murder me for this? Is this it—the final straw, the moment I pushed too far?
And then—Fuck me. He grabs the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one slow, fluid motion. His muscles flex like the universeis punishing me on purpose, and tosses it onto the counter without a word.
Just like that—he’s standing there. Shirtless. Giving me that look. That heavy, consuming look that sees right through everything I ever tried to hide. It’s the same one he gave me when he made me crawl to him. And like the unhinged masochist I apparently am, I look lower.
