Page 206 of His To Erase

No. No fucking way. That’s not her. That’s not—but I don’t know anymore because if she’s been here this whole time…Why the hell didn’t she say anything? Why disappear without a trace?Why let me believe it?

My hands curl into fists at my sides as my jaw locks, and my pulse pounds like a countdown I can’t hear the end of.

None of this makes any sense. Unless—unless he’s using her. Unless he found a way to keep her under his thumb. But even then—how the fuck has she stayed hidden this long? There’s no fucking way she stayed willingly. I can’t believe that.

I shut the file. I don’t need more fucking questions, I need answers. Real ones. The kind that bleeds when you cut them open, and leave a trail.

I know exactly where to start. Picking up my phone again, I dial and he picks up on the first ring.

“Tell me you’re packing a go-bag,” he mutters.

“I’m not calling you to babysit,” I snap.

“No?” A pause. “You sound like you’re about to burn something down.”

“I am.”

“...Shit.” I hear a rustle—probably him grabbing a pistol or sliding on his coat. “Talk to me.”

I’m not sure I can say without losing control. If I open my mouth, I don’t know what’s going to come out.

“I’ve been looking in the wrong direction,” I mutter. “I thought Frank’s interest in Ani was nothing more than a piece of ass he couldn’t get out of his system, but it’s more than that.”

“She’s connected?”

“She has to be. It’s too clean. All the data points line up. How did we miss this?”

“And you’re sure she doesn’t know?”

“I don’t think so.” I grind my jaw. “But if she’s been lying to me?—”

“You gonna kill her?”

My blood goes cold.

“No,” I say flatly. “But I’ll make damn sure no one else touches her.”

Ani

Ilean my head against the window, watching clouds blur past in streaks of white and gray. The hum of the engines fill the cabin, and it’s almost soothing.

I woke up this morning alone in a hotel bed I didn’t remember climbing into. My shoes were off, my makeup was smudged, and the dress I didn’t agree to wear was folded on the chair across the room.

The sheets on the other side of the bed were undisturbed, but there was a note on the nightstand in that slanted, too-neat handwriting that said,Flights at nine. Room service’s on me. You looked beautiful last night.

I don’t remember last night after the first glass of wine. I remember ordering a steak, and laughing at something he said about fruit imported from a volcanic valley in Iceland. I remember his fingers brushing mine, and I remember smiling even though it didn’t feel like mine.

He said nothing happened. We ate dinner, stayed up talking, and I was practically falling asleep at the table. He said I basically told him I didn’t want to fly back that late, so he booked a suite just to make things easy.

At least… that’s what he said.

When I questioned him about it, he sounded offended like I’d insulted him for asking.

He didn’t do anything wrong. Not technically. He was charming. Generous. Warm in all the right ways. But that’s the thing about people like Frank, the kind who always says the right thing—you don’t realize you’re bleeding until you look down and see the knife.

I shift in my seat, with my arms crossed, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. Still trying to ignore the fact that I don’t remember agreeing to any of this. Not the room. Not the flight. And certainly not waking up feeling like someone pressed mute on half my memories.

I’m still trying to forget the way he looked at me this morning—when I came downstairs after the fastest shower of my life. Like I’d already said yes to more than breakfast.