Page 239 of His To Erase
“You let him touch you.”
“Touch me?” I fake a gasp. “Babe. He did more than touch. Want me to describe it? There was lots of tongue and at one point, I’m pretty sure I saw God.”
The slap comes faster than I expect—but I don’t flinch. And that’s what really pisses him off.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he growls.
“I know.” I grin, even as blood trickles down my chin. “It’s my best feature.”
He shoves me back hard, and I stumble, catching myself on the rug with one hand before I hit the floor completely. My palm scrapes against the carpet, rug burn blooming across my skin, but I don’t make a sound.
He stalks toward the window like he needs space just to keep from murdering me.
Give me sixty seconds and I’ll be the one dragging his body through the backyard with my boot print on his throat.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he says quietly.
I blink up at him, all faux innocence. “Did I forget your birthday or something?”
His head turns slightly. “You think this is about a club?”
“Everything’s about a club when you’re a narcissist with a VIP complex.”
His lips twitch, and it shouldn’t hurt—but it does. Because even now, after everything, he still doesn’t take me seriously. I was never a threat to him. Just a toy that got mouthy.
“You always had a smart mouth,” he says.
“And you always had a God complex. We all have our shit, Frankie.”
His eyes flash. “Don’tcall me that.”
“Relax. It’s not like anyone else calls you anything worth remembering.”
His face doesn’t change, but I see the twitch in his jaw, and for a second, it almost looks like he might laugh. But then something shifts. That crack in his mask goes still and he takes a single step forward. The shift in his energy is instant. I don’t even have time to brace before he’s on me.
His hand clamps around my throat, shoving me flat against the floor. My skull knocks the rug beneath me, and his body pinsme like a weight I can’t escape. Fingers dig into my neck until my breath stutters, until the room starts to spin. His breath ghosts my cheek—hot, sour, and entirely too close.
“I don’t like sharing.”
I look up at him, lips curled, fury burning through the lack of oxygen. “Then you better kill me now, because I’m not yours—and I never fucking was.”
He leans closer, dragging his eyes down my face. “You’ve always been my favorite,” he murmurs. “Even when you didn’t know it.”
I tilt my head slightly, keeping my voice soft. “Aww. And here I thought I was just the most useful.”
A split-second pause. That’s all I get before the air shifts. I know I should shut the fuck up. I know this is the part where girls go quiet—where they plead, where they lower their eyes and pray they’ll be the exception to the rule.
But I’m not the exception. I never was.
If I’m going to die in this room, tied up and spit-shined—then I’m damn sure not going down quietly. But before I can savor the sting in his eyes, the door creaks behind him, and a new shadow steps into the room.
He’s massive. Broad shoulders, neck like a tree trunk, and that vacant look guys get when they’re built to break things, not think about them. He’s also wearing too much cologne and not nearly enough IQ behind the eyes.
“Careful, Frank,” I murmur, letting my eyes flick lazily to the guy still standing in the doorway. “Wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of company.”
There’s a beat of silence that’s just long enough for me to think. Maybe I pushed him too far. I really need to learn when to shut the fuck up.
The slap comes harder than the first. And that’s saying something, considering the last one already made my ears ring.
