Page 255 of His To Erase
My throat tightens. But I smile anyway. “Maybe you should just finish the job.”
He grabs my face, and his fingers dig into my jaw hard enough to bruise.
“You still think you’re tough, don’t you?” he chuckles. “You think this is some power struggle?”
His breath is hot against my cheek now. “This is your life now, Ani. You are mine. And you will obey.”
For one horrifying second, I see something unhinged in his eyes. He lets me go with a shove, and I stumble back.
He straightens his sleeves like nothing happened.
“We’ll try again later,” he says calmly. “I’m sure you’ll be more… cooperative by then.”
He leaves without another word and I realize something I should’ve known from the start. I underestimated him.
I pace for hours. Back and forth across the hardwood, bare feet slapping the floor in an uneven rhythm that makes my skin itch. There’s no clock in the room and I don’t have my phone. The only sense of time I have is the light outside.
I’m not afraid of him. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Again. And again. And again.
Somewhere between lap twenty-seven or fifty, I hear footsteps and I freeze near the closet. Because if I’m going to die,I’ll do it standing. The door slams open and I know the second I see his face—he’s done pretending.
Frank’s jaw is tight, his hair slightly out of place. He looks like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes are black but he doesn’t speak. He just shuts the door behind him and locks it.
Don’t ask me how I know—call it gut instinct, survival reflex, whatever—but something happened. He’s pissed, more than usual, and there’s this edge to him now. Coiled tight, like he’s trying not to snap. Like someone fucked up, and I’m about to be the one who pays for it.
He crosses the room in two strides. I don’t have time to even flinch before his hand is around my throat, slamming me against the wall so hard the frame beside me falls and shatters.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I’m clawing his arms as my airway closes.
“You don’t get it do you?”
I try to speak, but it’s just a rasp, and he tightens his grip.
“I tried to be gentle,” he growls, vibrating with rage. “I tried to give you soft. Tried to give you a choice.”
I blink as the back spots dance across my vision.
“But you didn’t want soft, did you?” he snarls. “I see the bruises all over you.”
He lets go and I collapse to the floor, coughing and gasping for air, hands on my knees as the room spins.
He paces, then turns, facing me again. “I gave you the chance to make this easy.”
I lift my head, voice hoarse. “Yeah? And I gave you the chance to get a fucking hobby.”
He grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet, throwing me onto the bed like I’m weightless. For half a second, I think he’s going to climb on, and this is the moment I’m going to snap. But he doesn’t.Thank God.
Instead, he just stands at the foot of the bed. Chest heaving, with his hands flexing at his sides.
“You’ll remember this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “You’ll remember how I had no choice.”
Then he turns to the closet. His movements are calm now, calculated—like he’s flipped the switch back to his favorite setting. He pulls out a floor-length black dress that looks like something you’d bury a mafia bride in, and tosses it on the bed beside me.
“You’ll wear that tonight.”
My voice is raw when I speak. “And if I don’t?”
