Page 250 of His To Erase
The words hit, but it’s the way he says them—like he knows her. He thinks she’s soft, he believes I’m nothing more than leverage to twist her into submission, but he has no idea. No ideawho she is when she snaps. No idea what she’ll do if he pushes her too far.
If she breaks—it won’t be into pieces. It’ll be into something worse. And I’ll have to watch the girl I’m falling for burn the fucking world just to make the pain stop.
That’s what he’s not ready for. And that’s the only reason I’m still alive.
I let my head fall back against the chair, eyes locked on the far corner—where the last camera blinked out three hours ago. I killed the first guard they sent in here with my fucking teeth.
I don’t know if they replaced him, but it doesn’t matter, they’re sloppy now. I can feel it. They think I’ve cracked because that’s what they always think when you bleed enough.
I hear two sets of footsteps, and I can tell one of them is dragging their feet. That’s the one I’m going to kill first.
They always come at the same time. Every twelve hours. They inject me with whatever cocktail Frank thinks will keep me compliant.
I won’t be taking it today.
I shift in the chair as the cuffs bite deep, but the left side’s loose enough that If I dislocate my thumb again, I can slip out. It’ll hurt like hell, but I’ve walked through worse.
The door opens and they walk in laughing—loud and careless, like they’ve already forgotten where they are. One of them reeks of cheap liquor and cheaper intelligence.
Perfect.
The taller one steps closer and crouches, reaching for my jaw. His fingers are clumsy, fumbling for control, a needle trembling in his grip.
“Look at you,” he mutters. “Big bad killer. Now you’re just meat in a chair.”
I smile.
It’s subtle, but it’s enough to make him hesitate. And that’s all I need. My left hand jerks free with a wet snap—thumb dislocating as I twist the loosened cuff upward and slam the jagged metal straight into his throat. He chokes, gurgling, and drops the needle.
The second one lunges for the door, but he’s too slow. I kick my legs forward, hard enough to break the tension in the ropes. The chair scrapes with me, dragging across the floor as I throw my weight sideways. Pain burns up my calves, but I don’t stop. I ram the back leg of the chair straight into his shin and he howls.
I use the momentum to twist again, and crash to the ground with the first guy’s body still tangled in mine. Something cracks—bone or metal, I don’t know. Don’t care. I’m already moving.
By the time I get my restraints off, one of them is out cold, and the other’s twitching, half-conscious.
I wipe the blood from my cheek with the edge of his sleeve, then snap his neck without hesitation.
I work fast—because it’s only a matter of time before someone checks the cameras and more of them come pouring in. I strip them both down, hands moving quickly searching their pockets, holsters, and boots. One’s got a rusted butterfly knife—useless, but light. The other’s carrying a compact Glock. I take both.
I pick up the security badge that’s stuck to his chest, the plastic slick with sweat. The name reads M. Diaz—generic enough to be fake. Could be real. Doesn’t matter.
I pocket it anyway.
The smaller guard had a comm that’s still active, so I flick the channel to low, earpiece only, keeping the volume just loud enough to catch the static between garbled bursts of bored check-ins and caffeine complaints.
The hallway outside my room is dim, quiet, and smells like copper and bleach. I don’t take the main path, I doubleback through a laundry chute, then through a boiler room. I’ve never been in this building before, but I know how compounds work. They always hide the good shit behind keycard doors and reinforced glass.
I follow the low hum of electronics until I find the security office. It’s small and cramped, and there’s barely enough room to stand. There’s a desk, a chair, and a coffee cup still steaming like the guy just sat down. One man’s at the console, headphones in, eyes locked on the monitors—completely fucking unaware.
I slide behind him and press the blade to his throat. “Not a sound,” I whisper.
He freezes as I pull the headset off him.
“Where’s Frank?”
He swallows. “He’s—he’s not here. He already left.”
“Left for where?”
