Page 256 of His To Erase
He smiles. And not in a charming way. “Then you’ll wear bruises instead. And nothing else.”
He moves toward the door, unlocking it with a click, and pauses. “You’ve got an hour to clean yourself up. Don’t be late.”
When I don’t answer, he chuckles. “Wear the dress. Or don’t,” he adds. “Either way, I’m taking what’s mine tonight.”
Then he’s gone.
Suddenly I can’t breathe and every nerve in my body goes rigid. I need to get the fuck out of here. Now. Before he decides he’s going to act on that and doesn’t need consent.
Of courseit’s the only black thing in this room. It’s sleek, and barely a whisper of fabric. This is the kind of dress you wear if you want to look elegant while selling your soul in exchange for a yacht and a steady supply of imported champagne.
Which, coincidentally, is also what Frank smells like.
I hold it up between two fingers, it has thin straps, and a deep plunging neckline. There’s also a slit up the side high enough tostart a conversation. There’s no way to wear this without being seen.
God, I hate him. How could I have ever been charmed by that fuck wad?
I toss the dress onto the bed and flop down beside it, flinging my arms dramatically overhead like I’m auditioning for the lead in Girl Who’s Definitely Not Having a Mental Breakdown.
“Great,” I mutter to the ceiling. “Look at me. Playing dress up for the man who’s most likely going to kill me.”
The camera blinks in the corner and I flip it off again. It's practically foreplay at this point, but I get up anyway because I’m not stupid. I know what happens if I don’t.
I’ve seen enough Lifetime thrillers to know that if a lunatic tells you to wear a dress and you show up in sweats, you don’t make it to the second act.
So I put it on. One leg, then the other. And the whole time I’m muttering to myself like I’m possessed.
“It’s fine. This is normal. Totally normal to be dressing up for your kidnapper-slash-stalker.”
The dress hugs my hips like it wants to apologize for everything my body’s been through.Yeah, well. I don’t accept. The shitty thing is, I look fucking amazing.
I reach for the perfume, spritzing my neck. I might as well smell good, especially if I’m about to die. I want to spray it in my palm and wipe it under my eye like war paint, but if I’m going to stab him, I need to be able to see.
“Dinner’s at seven,” I whisper mockingly to myself. “Don’t be late.”
I flip off the camera again for good measure, then I turn and start walking to the door. I’m pissed off, dressed like a sexy funeral ornament, and very much not in the mood to play house with the man who kidnapped me.
I look around for the clock that doesn’t exist, then glance at the blinking red light in the corner that definitely does.
“Okay,” I mutter, “I was told dinner was at seven.”
I look at the door and roll my eyes. “Oh my God. How am I supposed to know when it’s seven if I don’t have a fucking clock. You dumb, fucking idiot.”
I storm toward the door and rattle the knob.
“Heeellooo?” I shout, knocking so hard my fists hurt. “How am I supposed to be on time for dinner if you lock me in the fucking room?”
No answer.
Cool.
Love that for me.
I kick the bottom of the door lightly with my heel—not hard enough to hurt, obviously. But just enough to communicate that I’m this close to setting the curtains on fire out of sheer principle.
Finally, after another thirty seconds of me muttering to myself and threatening to scream, the lock clicks and the door swings open revealing some guy in black tactical casuals with the blandest face I’ve ever seen and a smile so polite it could be AI-generated.
“Right this way, miss.”
