Page 229 of His To Erase
Ani
The first thing I register is the silence. The kind that makes you feel like the world’s holding its breath. Light filters through the blinds in weak strips, casting gold across the bed sheets. My body aches in places I can’t name, my throat’s dry, and my chest is doing that annoying thing again.
That fluttery, jittery, anxious-flirty thing that only happened after I fell asleep in Steven’s arms. Which, obviously, was a terrible fucking idea. I should’ve known better. I don’t sleep like that—haven’t in years—and definitely not next to someone who could ruin me.
I stretch, dragging the blanket up over my bare chest and pressing my face into the pillow that smells like him—dark, woodsy, and sinful.God. I’m so screwed.
It’s not until I roll toward the nightstand that I realize two things at once. Steven is gone, and there’s a notecard on my nightstand. It’s sitting right on top of my phone.
My breath stalls. The last time I found one of these, it was blank. Just a card without anything on it… I don’t even know what it meant. Except maybe I do—because if this one is from him, does that mean so was the last one? I’m not even going to think about that right now. Looking down at this one, it has actual writing scrawled across it.
Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.
Don’t make me come find you.
– S
My body reacts like he just whispered it against my skin. I can still feel his hand sliding between my thighs and his voice whispering filth into my ear. I hate that it makes me smile, I hate that my stomach flips, and I hate that my heart does this stupid kick thing like he carved his name into it when I wasn’t looking.
I hate it because it means he got in. Past every wall I built, every don’t-touch-me edge I sharpened just to survive. He got under my skin and he made it feel good. And now I can’t scrub him out without bleeding.
He isn’t sweet. He’s war wrapped in sex and shadows. And yet this… this little gesture feels more intimate than all the ways he ruined me last night.
I swing my legs out of bed, the hardwood is cold against my bare feet. I’m still sore in places that remind me exactly how last night ended, and still too tangled up in the chaos to make sense of any of it.
I need caffeine.
And maybe a lobotomy.
I sit there for half a second longer than I should, staring at the note he left like it’s supposed to explain anything.
I march to the bathroom and scrub my face like it personally offended me, throwing on the first semi-clean outfit I can find. A pair of black leggings, an oversized hoodie, and my favorite combat boots. The hoodie still smells faintly like him—like smoke and that stupid, expensive soap he uses that should not make my stomach flip the way it does.
I spray perfume on just to spite it. My phone’s already buzzing with a message from Sarah.
Sarah : You up? Cuz I have donuts and possibly a crisis.
Perfect.
This is exactly the emotional energy I need.
I shoot her a quick reply—On my way. Save me one with sprinkles or I’m keying your car—then grab my bag, and head out.
The walk to Sarah’s is short, maybe ten minutes, but it’s enough to get my blood moving and knock some of the chaos out of my head. The morning’s cold enough to make my fingers numb, and the air smells like wet concrete and dried leaves.
I keep my head down, just in case. I know he said not to leave, but it’s just a few blocks, if he comes back before I do, I’m sure he’ll call me. By the time I round the corner, I’ve half convinced myself that I’m fine. That none of this means anything. What happened with Steven was just adrenaline and trauma and maybe a little too much skin.
When she opens the door in fuzzy socks and a pineapple robe and pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and chaos, something tight in my chest loosens for the first time all day.
“Okay,” she says, squinting at me like she already knows I’m lying. “What the hell happened to you?”
We end up on the couch ten minutes later, a donut box between us and her cat purring at our feet. The place smells like hazelnut coffee and a witchy Pinterest board come to life—with way too much vanilla and not enough sage.
Home.
“So,” she says, biting into a maple bar like it personally wronged her, “are we starting with the murdery one or the emotionally unavailable one?”
I blink. “That’s the same guy.”
