Page 260 of His To Erase
My heart stutters.
“Come here.”
I don’t move.
He takes a step around the table.
“Now.”
I stand, not being able to stomach what will happen if I don’t right now. I’m not actually trying to die tonight. My legs feel numb and my stomach turns to lead. I take one step, then another. I stop a few feet in front of him and he looks down at me like he wants to build a shrine and burn it down in the same breath.
He raises a hand and for the first time tonight…I think he might actually kill me.
My breath catches as every muscle in my body coils, preparing to take the hit. I brace for impact, but the strikedoesn’t come. He drops his hand, straightening his jacket and when he speaks, his voice is cold. Lethal.
“You’re lucky I have to wait.”
The words slide down my spine like ice water.Wait? For what?
“If I didn’t need your signature… you would be in pieces on this floor.”
My stomach lurches, but I don’t move. He takes a slow step toward me, his presence swallowing mine. I want to take a step back, but I don’t. Because prey runs, and I am not prey. Even if I feel like it.
He tilts his head, studying me. “I’ve killed men for less than what you said tonight,” he murmurs.
His hand lifts again—not to hit me, but to trace a line down my cheek.
I go still. Paralyzed by the pressure of his thumb brushing under my eye.
“But your mouth…” he whispers, smiling now—tight and cruel. “Will be the death of you.”
He leans down until his lips are just above my ear. “You think I’m cruel now?” he breathes. “You haven’t seen what I do to women who forget their place.”
The chill that runs through me this time is different. It’s colder, deeper. And it buries itself in my bones.
“Go back to your room.”
I blink. “What?”
“Now.”
The rage is gone again, wiped clean beneath that same sharp control I’ve come to expect. I hesitate, a little too slowly for him I guess. He grabs my wrist and starts walking, dragging me toward the dining room door without another word.
He opens it, and shoves me through, slamming the door behind me. The sound ricochets down the hallway and I stumbleback, heart hammering in my chest. My pulse pounds so loud it drowns out everything else. And for the first time in days, escape isn’t what flashes through my mind.
Survival is.
Ani
Iwake up like I’ve been hit by a truck. A velvet-lined, custom-upholstered, probably-stolen truck. But a truck, nonetheless.
This is why I don’t drink, I tell myself.
My mouth is dry. My back aches. My eyes feel raw—swollen and crusted, like my body finally tapped out from crying sometime during the night.
Which… yeah. That tracks.
I’m on day... what? Four? Five? It's hard to say what day it is when there are no windows, no clocks, and no one acknowledging your existence unless it’s time to play dress-up and eat under surveillance. Dinner’s the only time anyone remembers I’m still breathing.
