Page 275 of His To Erase
Okay. So maybe this wasn’t my best plan. I figured he’d do what he always does—slap me around, throw a fit, maybe storm out and leave me ten minutes of oxygen. I didn’t expect this. Not the silence. Not the shift in his eyes like I’ve finally pushed too far.
The guy in the suit finally speaks up—quiet, and a little unsure. There’s hesitation in his voice, maybe even a flicker of fear, but it doesn’t matter. Frank’s rage steamrolls right over it like it never existed.
The third hit lands before the suited man can finish his sentence.
I don’t even know where it lands this time—jaw, temple, maybe the back of my head—but wherever it is, it hits hard enough to rattle something loose and sends my vision sideways. The world tilts, and a wave of nausea crashes so hard it brings tears to my eyes. My ears won’t stop ringing, and the metallic tang of blood stings the back of my throat. Somewhere in all the static—something clicks.
This was never about the contract. Hell, it’s not even about business anymore. Or control. It’s a punishment for talking back, for existing on my feet instead of on my knees, and being the one thing he can’t seem to break without getting his hands bloody.
I curl around the pain, my body trying to protect itself on instinct, but I don’t scream.
Even if it would help, even if it might make him stop—I won’t give him the sound he wants.
A fist slams into my ribs—hard enough to crack something. I fold, gasping, but there’s no time to catch my breath before his hand knots in my hair and jerks me back up. Another hit, this time to my stomach, and the floor lurches beneath me. I can’t tell if I’m standing or falling as I let out a whimper. My knees buckle, but he’s already got my arm, dragging me up like a ragdoll.
I brace for the next hit. My feet scramble for the ground, but I can barely stay upright. Everything tilts, and my vision is tunneling fast—Then he shakes me. Hard and violently.
“You will sign,” he snarls, his spit hitting my cheek. “You will be mine. And you will fucking smile while you do it. Is that fucking clear?”
I blink hard, and feel the slow, sticky drag of blood sliding down my neck. My jaw throbs with every breath, and the tasteof metal floods my mouth like I’ve been chewing on a fucking penny.
I mean it when I lift my chin. “Then fucking kill me, Frank. Because I’d rather bleed on your floor than smile while you think you own me.”
His hand doesn’t rear back this time like I think it will, instead, he reaches for his waistband and pulls out his gun.
“Sign it,” his voice shakes with fury. “Or I’ll put a bullet in you and make your corpse prettier than your attitude.”
Oh fuck.
Good one, Ani. Real clever. Now what?
I just stare down the barrel letting the moment stretch—one long, broken heartbeat of knowing he might actually do it. But it never comes. Instead, he lowers the gun with a look in his eye that tells me the bullet is still coming—just not yet. Not before he wrings every last ounce of control from me.
He grabs me by the arm, clamping hard around the bruises already blooming under my skin, and then he yanks me toward him.
I stumble as my legs scream in protest and pain flares down my side. I let him drag me across the marble like some broken doll he thinks he owns, because maybe, if I make it to the end of this nightmare in one piece, he’ll throw me in a room and lock the door and forget about me long enough for me to figure out how to burn this entire goddamn place down.
The officiant adjusts his tie and looks at us like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Start,” Frank orders.
The man hesitates. “Shouldn’t we?—”
“I said start.”
The maybe-priest-maybe-lawyer blinks, like he’s just realized he doesn’t want to be in this room either. His eyes flickto me, then back to Frank. “Do you… do you want to begin with the?—”
Frank cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t give a fuck about vows. Skip to the end.”
All I hear is the tick of a clock, and the faint ringing still buzzing in my ears. Across the table, the officiant’s hand trembles as he flips the page again—like even the paper knows this is fucked.
“Please state your full name for the record,” he says.
I don’t answer and Frank’s hand comes down on the table hard enough to rattle the pen. “Say it.”
I lift my eyes to him slowly. My voice is a rasp when it comes out. “Anianne Rivera.”
I hate every second of this. But nothing I’ve tried has worked. Fighting didn’t work. Stalling didn’t work. So now—I have to switch tactics. If all Frank wants is my signature and the house that comes with it, then there’s a chance he’ll be satisfied enough to lock me in a room and walk away.That’s what I’m counting on anyway.
