Page 86 of His To Erase
I don’t know how long it’s been or if he’s still here, but I try to sit up—stupid, but I try. The moment my shoulder shifts, white heat flares through me, and a cry escapes before I can swallow it.
“Shit,” a voice growls.
He drops to his knees beside me and I can feel him—his body heat, the sharp tension radiating off him in violent waves.
His voice slices through the dark, laced with ice. “You planning to bleed out here, or is this just your new way of getting attention?”
My whole body screams, pain pulsing from my shoulder like a siren, but somehow, I manage to lift my head.
“What’s the matter?” I rasp. “Jealous someone else got to throw me around first?”
A muscle twitches in his jaw and under the dim streetlamp, I catch the flicker of his expression—he’s furious. But the light blurs, and the last thing I see before it all fades is the hard set of his mouth… and something behind his eyes I can’t name.
And then it all goes black.
The first thingI feel is pain. Hot and sharp, like someone injected fire straight into my shoulder. I try to move, turns out that’s a bad idea. My body protests like it’s been hit by a truck, as I try to crack one eye open.
This bed isn’t mine.
The sheets are too smooth, and the mattress is too soft. The whole room smells like expensive cologne, smoke, and the kind of leather that probably has a criminal record.
I push myself up, or try to, with my good arm—barely making it onto one elbow before a fresh wave of nausea threatens to take over again. I don’t puke.Yet. But I want to.
My mouth’s a desert and my head is pounding like it’s been used as a drum at a death metal concert.
The first thing I notice is that I’m not wearing my own shirt. The second thing… My arms in a sling.
I’m in a black oversized shirt that’s definitely not mine. And, oh—great. No bra. Of course.
My vision’s still a little hazy as I squint down at myself, trying not to spiral.What the actual fuck.
I scan the room, looking at floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall, revealing nothing but dense woods and darkness. No blinds. No curtains. Just glass and shadows and a big neon sign that reads remote murder cabin vibes.
The walls are black slate, broken up by built-in steel shelves that scream tactical more than decorative. If someone dropped in uninvited, I’d bet my life they’d be met with throwing knives and trauma.
There’s a fireplace on the far side—it’s sleek, with a matte black finish, but there’s no mantle. Just fire and stone and silent fuck-you money.
What the hell does this man do for work? Crime lord? Sex dungeon interior designer?
There’s no clutter and not a single photo or personal detail anywhere. And here I am—bleeding in the middle of it, in someone else’s clothes.
On the nightstand, sitting dead center like it belongs there, is my knife. My boots are lined up neatly by the door like I’m some fucking guest in a five-star hostage situation.
Someone undressed me.
The memory hits like a freight train.
The alley. Blood. That man. My knife.
And Him.
The man with ink on his chest and a mouth that knows no mercy. Who kissed me like he wanted to ruin me and speaks in threats.
A shadow shifts in the hallway and the door opens. Speaking of the devil. He’s shirtless.
And of course he’s wearing the holy grail of thirst traps—gray sweatpants. They’re slung so low on his hips that it looks like they’re held up by arrogance alone. A towel hangs around his neck.
My brain? Gone. Offline.
