Page 248 of His To Erase
The light above me flickers. They’ve been drugging me—needle to the neck, needle to the thigh—until time turns to soup. But I’m pretty sure it’s been at least three days—give or take a few hours.
The light shifted twice through the crack in the ceiling. The guard’s only changed three times. Same footsteps. Same routine. Predictable fuckers. That’s how people die.
They haven’t brought in any food. Just water. Every second that passes is one more that she might be in his fucking hands.
My hands are still cuffed behind the chair, and my ankles are strapped to the legs—tighter this time. I guess they learned theirlesson after I snapped the zip ties, broke one guard’s windpipe and caved in the other’s skull with a rusted pipe.
My ribs are bruised to hell. My face is split open and my right eye’s swollen shut. I can still taste the blood in the back of my throat from when they broke my nose—again.
I’ve had worse. But I’ve never been this fucking angry.
I flex my wrists again as the cuffs bite into skin that’s already flayed open. But it doesn’t matter. Pain’s a language I speak fluently. I try the same move I’ve used six times—twist, breathe, rotate my shoulder down and out—but the angle’s wrong. The chair doesn’t budge.
Fuck.
I close my eyes, and she’s there. Burned into the backs of my eyelids like a brand I’ll never get rid of. That smart fucking mouth, always running until I shut it the only way she really wanted. That sharp, wicked smile—half brat, half dare—begging me to lose control.
I see her crawling for me, chin tilted, eyes blazing like she knows I’ll break her for it and wants it anyway. I hear that little whimper she makes when she’s trying not to beg. The one that ruins me. The one I’ve been hearing every time the drugs wear off and I’m stuck in this body that won’t fucking move.
I can still feel her. The heat of her cunt wrapped around me. The tremble in her thighs. The way her fingers clawed at my chest like she wanted to tear me open and live inside the wreckage. I see her flushed and breathless, whisperingminelike she forgot it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
I think about how she looked at me that night on the cabin floor—like I was the only thing holding her together and the only thing tearing her apart. I didn’t mean to care. I didn’t even notice it happening until it was too fucking late.
I think about how I got here—drugged, bleeding, chained to a wall—wondering if she’s okay. Wondering if he’s hurt her. Andfor the first time in years, I’m not thinking about revenge or blood or the goddamn plan.
I’m thinking about her. And that’s when the pain stops registering as pain. That’s when it turns into something meaner.
She has no idea what he is. No clue what he’s capable of. Hell—she doesn’t even know who she is.
But I do.
I yank harder, and pain screams up my arm, white-hot and electric, but I don’t stop. Blood slicks my wrist because of the cuffs that are currently rubbing my skin raw.
Let it fucking hurt. I need the pain. It’s the only thing anchoring me to the present. If it hurts, I’m awake. If I’m awake, this is not some hallucination bleeding into my head like the nightmares that haunted me after the warehouse.
I should’ve called Travis back. Should’ve looked harder. Dug deeper. There were signs—and I fucking missed every single one of them because I was distracted.
Looking back, all the signs were there. The cracks in her voice. The way she flinched when she thought I wasn’t watching. But I ignored all of it—too far gone, already drowning in the feel of her.
God, I was so fucking sure I had him.
And if Frank?—
My head jerks up as the door opens. I straighten immediately, and the blood from my lip slides down my throat, but I try to keep my heartbeat level.
Frank steps into the room wearing dark slacks, and a tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There’s no visible weapon—but I know better. He always hides his teeth until it’s too late. That smile curves over his mouth and he looks like a fucking psychopath.
“Stevie,” he says, like we’re catching up over drinks. He clucks his tongue. “You’re not looking so great.”
He starts to circle the chair like a shark scenting blood in the water.
“You’re probably wondering how long it’s been,” he muses. “What you’ve missed. Who you’ve failed.”
I keep my face blank, but my jaw locks tight enough to grind bone. Every second she’s not in my arms is another second I’m counting in bullets.
“Don’t worry,” he says, stepping toward the table across from me. “I’m not going to kill you today.”
He taps something on the table, and a screen flickers to life on the far wall. It’s grainy at first. Then?—
