Page 93 of His To Erase
My breath stalls.
Then quieter—deadlier—his voice dips. “Hold still.” And I do.I fucking do.
My body’s already made the decision and left my brain out of the vote. And God, I hate how easily I obey. When did this sudden submissiveness happen?
I suck in a breath, but it’s not from pain—it’s how careful he is. He takes his time lifting the fabric over my head, easing it off my good arm—then slower, gentler—past the other.
The shirt hits the floor, and I can practically hear my pussy purring.
“Shower,” he says, his voice rougher around the edges. “You smell like blood.”
I roll my eyes. Anything to keep the heat in my chest from crawling up my throat.
“Glad you’re so concerned.”
He doesn’t answer, instead, he steps past me, and reaches into the shower. The water crashes against the tile, as steam instantly starts to unfurl between us like smoke.
He’s standing close enough that I could touch him if I leaned forward half an inch.
His jaw flexes. “I need to change your dressings after.”
“Planning on watching me?” I snap, like I’ve still got teeth left to bare.
That cocky smirk of his returns, carved from sin. “Only if you beg.”
Then he turns and walks out, door closing behind him with a soft, deliberate thud. Somehow, the silence he leaves behind is louder than anything he said.
Ani
The floor’s cold beneath my feet by the time I find another shirt folded neatly on the counter—one I didn’t see before I got in. It’s so big, it hangs off one shoulder, swallowing me whole.
But it smells like him.
Thank God getting it on was a little easier than trying to take it off. I don’t know if it’s the bruises or the blood loss, but everything feels slow and a little muffled. It almost feels like I’m walking through smoke.
I step out of the bedroom and pause.
The hallway stretches in both directions, both long and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of recessed lights tucked into the baseboards. All I can see is wood, stone, and shadow. Everything smells like cedar and money. It’s stunning.
And a little unsettling.
I have no idea where we are, but it’s massive and silent. Almost peaceful. Every step I take echoes louder than it should, despite the fact that I’m barefoot.
Yeah. This definitely isn’t the kind of place that hosts game nights. I’m brushing my fingers along a doorway I don’t dare open, when I see another hallway branch off to the left, with floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end. All I see is black. I think it’s safe to assume we’re in the woods.
I don’t know how far I walk, but eventually, the scent of burnt toast and coffee hit me. I can also hear something sizzling in a pan.
It smells like… normal. Which somehow makes it worse. I only follow it, because I’m starving, slightly concussed, and—let’s be honest—I can’t start the day without caffeine and maybe a little self-loathing.
And then I see him.
Fuck. Do I see him.
He’s standing barefoot at the stove like some feral domestic hallucination of mine. Modesty isn’t just dead, it’s buried in the backyard and he’s the one who pulled the trigger.
His tattoos are doing that thing—again—dragging my eyes right to them, like they’ve got their own gravitational pull. I really do try to look away.
I fail. Miserably.
