Page 117 of His To Erase
My blood runs cold before I even unlock it, and I can feel it in my body, that hum of dread. I’m not even going to open it, but when I glance down I see what it says.
Unknown : You think this is a fucking joke?
It slams into me harder than I expect, because I thought I was taking my power back. I thought the message I sent this morning made me untouchable—like maybe I had a little bit of control after all.
I refuse to let whoever this is know they got to me. I won’t give them that satisfaction. Not now. Not ever. I lock the screen, dropping the phone face-down on the bench beside me, and pretend like my hands aren’t still trembling.
I can hear Sloane laughing faintly from the front desk. Somewhere in the distance, someone wheels a cart across the tile. The library is humming with normalcy, but I’m frozen in the back room, drowning in static.
It buzzes again and I stare at it like it might explode. It’s a stupid rectangle of glass and metal, and yet I’d rather be holding a grenade.
I reach for it with two fingers and flip it over. One new message. I know I should just ignore it, but I don’t because I clearly hate myself. I really might need to just change my number at this point.
Unknown: I’ll fucking know if you let anyone touch what’s mine.
The words slide straight down my spine. I stare at the screen, rereading them like they might shift into something less loaded. How can one random person cause this much stress?
The only person I know who talks like that is Steven. He’s always had that edge, but this feels a little too unhinged to be Steven.Right?
Even when he was screwing with me, he never sounded this… unstable.Ugh. I don’t know anymore.
My phone buzzes again with another message, and I almost drop my phone. No matter how many times I tell myself I’m not affected, it’s starting to get to me. What if he found me?
Unknown : If you think I don’t know where you are at all times, you’re not half as smart as you pretend to be…
A cold sweat breaks across my whole body, and I can’t breathe.
I glance at the window, the door, at every corner of this goddamn room like maybe there’s a camera pointed at my face, waiting for my reaction. I can’t tell if I’m being watched or if my brain is breaking apart from the inside out.
I should call Sarah, or report it. But what would I even say? If it’s not Steven—then who the hell is it?Some part of me wishes it was Steven. And that thought scares me.
I don’t reply or throw the phone across the room, even though I want to. I just put it on silent and lock it again, shoving it into my pocket, then force my body to move. If I sit here for another second, I might drown in the static pouring through my brain.
I need to get up. Get over it. And get back to fucking work.
I repeat it like it’s my daily mantra, grabbing a cart full of returns and shoving through the door like I’ve got somewhere to be.
I’m halfway through the third shelf when Sloane rounds the corner like a cat—probably holding a crystal in one hand and a coffee in the other. She watches me restack a few hardcovers, hopefully not noticing I’ve been holding them upside-down for the last five minutes. I really need to get my shit together.
“I’m fine,” I say flatly.
She never wastes time with pleasantries. If she’s quiet, she’s reading me. Waiting for the best spot to dig her claws in and pull the truth out.
“Didn’t ask,” she says finally.
I slap another book into place like it owes me money, then instantly feel guilty about it.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Mm.” She crosses her arms and leans against the end of the shelf like she has all goddamn day. “You’re spiraling.”
I shoot her a look. “Wow. Did you get that from my aura, or the fact that I just shelved Hunger Games in nonfiction?”
She doesn’t even smile. Tough crowd. “Ani, talk to me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
