Page 56 of His To Erase
It’s too precise. Almost like she’s going through the motions and trying too hard to look normal. I’ve seen it before—people trying too hard to look like they’ve got nothing to hide. They overcompensate on the surface… And fuck up the parts that matter.
So maybe she’s not just some innocent bartender with soft eyes and trust issues. Maybe she’s playing me. And maybe she’s lying about how broken she is.
An hour passes before I move.
The fire escape groans under my boots, metal whispering my presence to the night like it wants to be caught. I test the window, and it’s unlocked.
Stupid girl.
I slip inside soundlessly.
The apartment smells like her. Lavender and coffee, edged with something wild and lived-in. It hits me in the chest harder than I expected.
There’s a knife on the table, and her boots are kicked off sideways, one barely hanging off the rug, like she didn’t have the energy to finish the job. She’s draped across the couch like the day tore her in half and left the rest behind.
She has one arm over her stomach, and the other curled toward her face, twitching slightly.
I slide her phone onto the counter—right next to a chipped mug and a stack of takeout menus covered in her messy handwriting.
My gaze sweeps the room—books are stacked everywhere, and a half-empty water glass sits on the table. She seems like the type of girl who reads until her eyes bleed. Probably to drown out her own thoughts.
It fits her.
I start to leave, but then I hear her.
“Get off me… please don’t…”
My body goes still. Every muscle locks, and every instinct that’s ever made me a killer comes roaring to the surface.
I turn.
She’s still asleep, but barely. She’s breathing ragged, and her lips are parted. Her legs kick once, tangled in the blanket.
Her voice breaks again.
“Please…”
The word slices clean through me—soaked in fear. Half-formed through sleep, but there’s nothing uncertain about the way it lands. It’s a plea pulled from bone-deep memory, not imagination.
My hand hovers near the door, but I don’t move.
She shifts on the couch, curled in tighter now, her knees draw up like she’s trying to disappear. Her fingers twitch. Her jaw clenches as she takes another breath, and there’s another broken whimper.
“Don’t… not again…”
My jaw locks, hard. I don’t even notice I’m grinding my teeth until the ache hits.What is going on?
She’s dreaming. But this isn’t just a bad dream, this is a memory with teeth. I take a single step back, eyes locked on her. Her face is half-buried in the couch cushions now, and there’s just enough moonlight to catch the sweat at her temple.
Fuck.
She looks small.
She looks nothing like the sharp-tongued brat who throws sarcasm like knives and acts like the world owes her a reason to keep breathing.
Right now, she looks like someone who knows exactly what it’s like to be prey. To be hunted. Her mask is off, even if she doesn’t know it. And I don’t want to look at her like this.
My fingers twitch again, as I curl them into a fist.
