Page 246 of His To Erase
That mother fucker touched me while I was out.
My scalp starts to itch like his fingers are still there. Like, what the fuck? What was he doing? Parting strands and smearing color all over them while I laid there like a corpse in a salon chair?
I gag. My hand flies to my mouth, but it’s too late. I’m already dry-heaving into the sink.
He’s trying to erase me, one personality trait at a time.
Oh my God.
I clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles going white. The rage is back—sharp and volcanic.
“I will kill him,” I whisper.
The words sound shaky, at best. I grip the sink harder, trying to hold onto something—anything—but my mind is unraveling faster than I can stitch it back together.
What does he want from me? I can’t remember enough to piece it together. Just flashes. Smells. And that stupid, broken reel of memory keeps skipping.
And what about Steven?
Did he know? Was he part of it? Did he come to what, just finish the job?
I can’t even think about him without tripping over the mess of my own feelings. And if I start thinking about my feelings for him—nope.
It’s a straight shot to self-destruction. A full sprint toward heartbreak with a knife in my back and his name carved into the blade.
Oh God.
Sarah.
My heart lurches.
She’ll come looking. She has to. She’ll blow the whole fucking city up trying or at least raise enough hell to get someone’s attention.
Unless he already…No. No. Don’t go there.
Panic claws up my throat like it’s trying to choke me from the inside.Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
I slap the water on my face, trying to snap myself out of it, but all it does is remind me I’m still here. Still trapped. I press both palms to the counter and inhale, slowly.
Get it the fuck together.
If I want to make it out of here alive, I don’t get the luxury of breaking down.
I lock eyes with my reflection again. “Well?” I whisper. “Got a plan, or just gonna keep bleeding until he fucks you into submission or kills you? Because that isnotfucking happening.”
I rub my arms, scanning the room like it’s gonna cough up answers. Maybe somewhere between the overpriced decor and the scent of control, I’ll find something more helpful than whatever advice they give the FBI’s Most Gaslit Woman of the Year.
He’s packed me away like a porcelain doll that he wants wrapped in lace and silence, ready to ship off to god knows where.
I may look like a doll, but I’ve got teeth. And if he thinks I’m playing dress-up in his psychosexual fairytale, he’s about to learn what happens when you put a wolf in silk.
That’s the spirit.
If he wants to play dirty, two can play at that game. I turn on my heel and head to the dresser. If he packed me a bag full of lingerie, maybe he stocked the drawers with something useful.
The top one creaks open like a horror movie cue, and my stomach flips. It’s full of new clothes that all have the tags still on. It’s just more outfits that scream ‘trophy wife’ and ‘look how well-behaved she is now’.
Neutrals. Silk. Lace.
