Page 196 of His To Erase
“Jesus, Ani.” He chuckles, like I’ve overreacted. Like this is all some lover’s spat. “You really think I’d hurt you?”
I say nothing as he crouches more, bringing himself closer to my eye level, one hand braced on the car door.
“I brought you here to talk, baby. That’s it.” His tone softens. “You looked upset earlier. I thought maybe you could use a break. A breather. That little shop clearly didn’t go the way you wanted it to.”
I swallow hard, keeping my expression neutral.
He continues, coaxing. “Look, I’m sorry. I just… missed you. I’ve had a really long day. Come inside, have a drink, cool off. You don’t have to stay long. I know you’ve got to work later.”
His voice is all warm and confident as my heart hammers like a warning bell in my ribs, but I nod once and finally climb out.
“Good girl,” he murmurs as I step past him.
It still doesn’t hit the way it does when Steven says it. It lands flat, and I don’t melt. I just follow him up the steps of a house I’ve never seen, telling myself over and over that it’s fine.
The door creaks open, and I step into a space that’s too clean. It’s the kind of place that smells more like lemon polish and curated silence than real life. The walls are white, lined with expensive art. It’s giving hotel lobby vibes in a mansion’s skin. And somehow, that fits him.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Frank says, casually. “You want something to drink?”
I nod once. “Sure.”
I perch on the edge of a barstool, when my phone buzzes in my pocket but I don’t check it yet. It’s probably another creepy text.
He sets the glass in front of me then leans against the counter with his arms folded. He watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to play nice or press harder.
“I know you’ve had a rough couple of weeks,” he says, his voice low and almost sympathetic. “And I’m not mad, love. I get it. You needed space. Time to think.”
I grip the water glass tighter. I can’t have anotherfeelingsconversation right now.
“I didn’t mean to crowd you,” he goes on, pushing off the counter to close the space between us. His hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair from my face like he does. “You’re still getting used to everything. But I need you to understand something, okay?”
My throat tightens. Everything in me pulls back, because I don’t want to lead him on even more.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispers. “I know you don’t remember everything. That’s fine. I remember enough for both of us.”
My stomach lurches. What does that mean, you remember enough for both of us? How did I even get into this mess? Sure, I might’ve led him on, but I never encouraged him to think I wanted to date.
His eyes narrow slightly, and his voice goes quieter. “You’ll see. You’ll realize I’m the only one who’s been honest with you.”
The room feels too small now. “I need to go soon. I have work.”
He nods, like he understands, but he doesn’t move. “Of course. I’ll drive you,” he says.
I push back from the barstool, forcing my voice to stay even. “I—I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Down there,” he says, gesturing down the hall. “Second door on the right.”
I nod, turning too fast. As soon as I round the corner, I yank my phone out with shaking fingers, my pulse slamming in my throat.
There’s another grainy photo attached, it’s the outside of the bar. The exact back entrance I always use—the one without cameras. It’s a photo of me and Sarah, mid-laugh. She’s got her arm slung around my shoulder and my head’s tipped back, mouth open. I don’t need to know what the message says to know what the message is.
UNKNOWN: If you show up tonight, I can’t promise she’ll make it home.
I’m done waiting in the shadows.
My stomach twists as cold, paralyzing nausea floods me, slow and suffocating. I don’t even realize I’ve braced both hands on the bathroom sink until my knuckles start to ache. My pulse is so loud it drowns everything else out as I check to make sure I locked the door.
I look like a girl who hasn’t slept in days. A girl who’s lived three lifetimes since yesterday, and maybe I have. I grip the sink edge and suck in a breath.
