Page 237 of His To Erase
Frank couldn’t pull off something like this alone. He needed someone like Steven. Someone who could get close to do lord knows what. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? He said he took care of things.
I was the package. The prize. The pretty little pawn passed between monsters. And maybe Steven wasn’t supposed to fall for me—but that doesn’t mean he didn’t play his part. He got inside. He cracked me open. And now he’s gone.
He knew what was coming.
That video wasn’t a warning, it was a message.
God, how did I not see it?
My vision blurs and I blink hard, my knuckles are white around the neck of the bottle. He said he’d come back. He said no more lies. But if he meant it—why didn’t he tell me the truth? Why didn’t he warn me?
Heat roars in my chest like the match is already lit, and for once, I don’t care, let it burn. If I’m going to be the girl they all pass around like property, then I’ll be the one who scorches the kingdom down first.
I grab a rag and shove it halfway into the neck of the first bottle, then snatch another from the shelf. This one’s top-shelf vodka, some ridiculous import wrapped in gold foil and ego. Frank always said he reserved it for clients who mattered.
Perfect.
That’s all I’ve ever been to him, right? A pawn wrapped in lip gloss and trauma he thought he could mold into what? A trophy girlfriend?
Yeah, fuck that.
I move with precision and purpose, like I’ve done this before. Every time I’ve had to start over. Every time a man tried to own me. And tonight, I’m not starting over. I’m ending something.
The club’s still dark, but I know every inch of it now. I know the curve of the bar where Frank liked to stand when he gave orders. I know the shadowed VIP booth he used like it was a pulpit.
I start at the entrance. The same one he walked me through like I was something to show off. My hand doesn’t shake as I unscrew the cap and pour a steady line of Everclear straight down the glossy floor. From the front door where he first lied to me…to the booth where he kissed my wrist and told me I was safe. Then all over the edge of the stage.
Every step is deliberate.
Every drop is soaked in betrayal.
I move to the stage, climbing slowly as I pour another line of liquor along the edge. It drips down the wooden slats like blood. I coat the bar next. The counter. The floor. The velvet stools.
I don’t stop.
Not when the bottle runs low. Not when the fumes sting my nose. Not even when the edges of my vision blur with all my feelings coming to the surface. I coat every inch in gasoline-flavored vengeance, baptizing it all in something truer than forgiveness—rage.
He treated this place like it was his kingdom, but it was mirrors and smoke and power disguised as charm. I was just some stupid pawn he paraded through it—dressed in promises.
I pull the matchbook from my pocket—lifted earlier from the emergency stash behind the register. It rests between my fingers for a beat, shaking slightly, then it flares to life.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” I whisper into the dark, empty silence.
And then I drop it.
The fire catches fast—like it’s been holding its breath, just waiting for the go-ahead. Flames snake along the trail I left, flickering toward the booths first. The velvet goes up in seconds, thick smoke poures off the fabric as heat swells around me. It devours every shadow, every lie Frank ever sold under dim lights and who knows whatever shady ass shit he was doing here.
The walls catch next, and the overhead bulbs burst like warning shots—sharp cracks of glass rain down like shattered promises. Behind the bar, bottles explode in a chain reaction, flinging ribbons of fire into the air like some twisted finale.
"You made me a monster. Now even the devil’s afraid of me."
I turn, smoke curling around me—sliding over my shoulders like it’s part of me now. My boots hit pavement with a finality that echoes in my chest. The scent of scorched velvet and burning liquor clings to my hoodie, my hair, my skin. It followsme down the block like a shadow I finally earned. And I don’t look back.
I don’t feel guilty. I feel awake, and alive. Which makes me feel alittleguilty, considering I just committed arson.
The wind has teeth tonight, but I don’t care. It bites at my cheeks, slices through the holes in my jeans—but nothing can touch the fire still crackling under my skin.
I don’t even know where I’m going. Away from the lie Frank built. Away from the version of myself that sat and smiled through it.
