Page 48 of His To Erase
Ani
The street’s too quiet. That should’ve been my first red flag.
I knew I should’ve called an Uber.
Hell, I should’ve taken the main road, like any normal person with a functioning survival instinct.
But I didn’t. Because I’m an idiot.
I like pretending I’m not afraid anymore. Like the old me—the one who flinches at shadows and second-guesses every footstep—doesn’t still live in the back of my head.
Spoiler…she does.
My boots hit the pavement, each step echoing too loud off the brick and concrete. My keys are wedged between my fingers, jutting out like teeth. I used to joke about it—telling Sarah I’m fine walking home because I was basically Wolverine.
It’s somehow less funny when your heart’s pounding in your throat.
Something shifts in the alley to my left. A shadow breaks off the wall like smoke, but I don’t stop walking.
"You always walk home alone this late, sweetheart?"
That voice. Smooth as silk, but sharp as a goddamn razor.
Tattoo man.
I don’t answer right away, instead I just turn slowly, letting him step fully into the light.
He looks like every crime I haven’t committed yet and all the ones I already regret. His sleeves are shoved up over his beautiful tattooed forearms, and the ink at his throat coils like it might bite. That black stare eats me alive without asking permission. His jaw ticks once, but his shoulders stay loose—like a predator too bored to rush the kill.
"Didn’t realize we were playing stalker now," I mutter, trying to ignore the skip in my pulse and the heat pooling low in my stomach.
My body clearly isn’t getting any of the memo’s when it comes to this man.
His smile is laced with something darker than amusement. "Not stalking. Walking."
His voice dips lower, like it’s meant to curl straight between my thighs.
"Figured I’d be nice and keep you safe on my way. Call it a favor."
He pauses, dragging his eyes down the length of me with that same cold calculation he always hides behind.
"Not everyone you let close has your best interests, sweetheart."
That hits harder than it should. My stomach tightens, jaw twitching. What the hell does he think he knows?
"And what are you protecting me from, exactly?"
His smile drops like a blade. "Everything that wants to own you."
Some small, fucked-up part of me wishes he meant himself. I should roll my eyes, and throw a line over my shoulder, or veeroff in the opposite direction and pretend like this doesn’t affect me. But I don’t move.
"What are you doing here?" I ask instead, my voice sharp enough to slice through the chill climbing my spine. It’s instinct—mask the shiver, bury the reaction, pretend I’m unaffected.
His hands stay in his pockets, but the way he steps closer feels like a threat.
"Same reason you’re still standing here."
I blink, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “You don’t even know me.”
