Page 257 of His To Erase
Miss?
He says it like I’m not being held hostage by the world’s most emotionally constipated narcissist. I look at him. Then the hallway. Then back at him.
“You gonna escort me with a taser or just vibes?” I ask sweetly.
He doesn’t answer. Just gestures down the hallway like this is a job he didn’t read the fine print on. I sigh, and step out.
“Lead the way, henchman number four,” I mutter. “Let’s go see what the king of daddy issues cooked up for dinner.”
Not a single crack in his features.Tough crowd.
I trail behind my escort—Mr. Tactical Boredom—as my heels click against the floor. Of course Frank added heels to the goth barbie look.
I clear my throat. Loudly. But get no response from my escort.
“Do you guys get paid hourly,” I ask, “or just in morally compromising bonuses and benefits?”
He just keeps walking.
I sigh. “Okay, cool, no talking. I get it. We must have similar childhoods.”
I take a few more steps. Then I glance sideways, smiling sweetly. “So… does he make all his prisoners dress for dinner?”
That gets me a glance. Barely a flick of his eyes, but it’s there. One tiny sliver of attention that almost resembles…pity?
Huh. I’ll just tuck that away for later or I’ll start crying.
That’s the kind of look you give someone heading into a room they don’t walk out of.
Can’t wait.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin, and follow him like I’m not already counting exits, shadow lines, and weapon potential. Frank might’ve picked the dress, but I still decide how the night ends.
When the door opens into a room that looks like it belongs in a magazine, I suddenly feel sick. There’s candles lit on a table long enough to seat a small army of devoted followers—except there’s only one person sitting at it.
Frank.
And he looks pissed.
I take one step in and feel the temperature drop ten degrees and my guard steps aside without a word.Pussy.
I must have a death wish, because I smile. That’s what we do when we’re about to get murdered in luxury eveningwear, right?Fake it till you make it. Or until the champagne flute cracks across your face.
“Wow,” I say softly. “Romantic. You light all these candles yourself or did one of your minions get a promotion?”
He doesn’t move.
Shit.
“You’re late,” he says.
I take a few steps forward, heels clicking like gunshots across the marble.
“My door was locked,” I snap. “Kind of hard to be on time when your kidnapper forgets to include transportation in the fantasy.”
He stands slowly and I swallow, but keep my head high. He rounds the table without breaking eye contact. This sure doesn’t feel like dinner, it feels like a fucking execution.
“I gave you one rule,” he says quietly. “One.”
