Page 225 of His To Erase
“You’re good,” the man says, full of smug satisfaction. “But not untouchable.”
Pain wakesme before the light does, throbbing along my jaw. Something warm and wet drips from the corner of my mouth—blood, likely mine.
The world seeps in piece by piece.
I can taste metal on my tongue, and I hear the buzz of a single overhead bulb. My wrists are bound behind the chair, and rope bites into my skin. My ankles are free, so either they got cocky…Or they don’t know what I am.
That’s their first mistake.
My vision is sluggish but sharpening. The floor’s concrete, and it’s cracked and wet beneath my boots. There’s dust in the air, and I can hear a pipe dripping somewhere off to the left.
I’m in a basement.
What matters is—they brought me underground and they didn’t kill me.
That’s mistake number two.
I flex my fingers, and I can feel some slack in my left wrist. Not much, but it’s enough. I test the friction, and I can feel the rope burn flare down my forearm, and my shoulders are screaming.
Fuck.
Whatever they used, was enough to put a man twice my size down. I breathe through my nose, slowing my breathing, cataloging everything through the haze.
The faint clicking in the wall to my right sounds like rats. I listen harder, but I don’t hear any voices or footsteps. Which means they’re either watching, or waiting for me to wake up. Which also means they want me alive.
They have no fucking idea what a mistake that is.
I rotate my neck and a sharp pain ricochets down my spine. My lip’s busted, and my nose might be broken. My ribs—bruised at best. Whoever took me got sloppy.
Then it hits me.
Ani.
She’s alone and unprotected. She doesn’t even know I’m gone yet, but when she does—she’ll leave. And if Frank finds her before I do, I’ll rip his fucking throat out and paint the walls with what’s left.
No. No fucking way. She won’t leave, she’s smarter than that. She’s mine and I will kill every last person in this building if they’ve touched her.
I hear footsteps.
I stay limp, letting my head hang.Let them think I’m weak.
A figure steps in. Tall and broad, dressed in a cheap suit, and cologne that tries to hide the scent of smoke.
“You’re awake,” the man says.
I smirk. “Disappointed?”
He chuckles. “No. Just impressed. Thought we’d need a little longer with how much we gave you.”
He circles me slowly, keeping just out of reach. I keep my eyes on him, but my focus is everywhere—walls, corners, the hum of ventilation, the temperature drop.
“You’re lucky,” he finally says. “Most men in your position don’t get this far.”
I smile, and I can feel the blood sliding down my chin. “That supposed to scare me?”
He paces again. “Most men in your position don’t talk back, either.”
I lift my head, inch by inch, until our eyes lock. My voice stays flat. “Most men aren’t me.”
