Page 226 of His To Erase

He hesitates, just for a second. Then circles again, slower this time. Like he’s trying to read me. “Keep talking. See how fast that mouth gets you buried.”

I smile. Just enough to show the blood in my teeth. “You better bury me deep.” I pause. “Because if I get up? I don’t leave survivors.”

I’m getting out of this room, and when I do, Hell’s coming with me.

The thought alone coils tight in my chest, sharpening every fractured nerve as I watch him—closer this time. The way he moves. How he glances toward the door, which means someone promised backup if things go sideways.

His confidence is trained. I can smell the fear, buried under protocol and a borrowed sense of power. He’s not built for blood.

He doesn’t know it yet… but he’s already dead.

“I’ll talk to the man in charge,” I jab, testing the rope again behind me. It’s thick and twisted, but not reinforced. “Not the intern.”

That earns a flicker at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t take the bait. He’s smart.But not smart enough.

“You don’t get to make demands,” he says, all bark and borrowed authority. “You’re a message.”

I smile, letting the blood on my lip smear. “Frank ever tell you how many messages I’ve buried?”

He blinks. Just one beat of hesitation and that’s all I need. I dislocate my thumb with a crunch—and fuck that hurt—but I ride the pain. I’ve lived through worse and I don’t have time to care at the moment. The rope gives and I rip my wrist free, driving my elbow up into his throat. His breath seizes in a wheeze as he stumbles backward, out cold.

The second one lunges from the doorway and I pivot, catching his momentum and looping the rope around his forearm mid-strike. I twist hard, dragging him off balance andslamming him into the wall so hard the crack of bone echoes through the room. He crumples, spitting blood on the floor.

I crouch over him, while my lungs claw for air. Blood drips from my knuckles, and my vision narrows slightly, but I don’t let it pull my focus.

Not yet.

“You should’ve run,” I growl, as I reach for him again.

I’ve got him in a chokehold, seconds from crushing his windpipe, when it hits. A sting at the base of my neck.

My body reacts before my brain catches up.

Fuck.Not again.

I rip the dart from my neck, my vision already tilting sideways while the floor shifts beneath me. This time it kicks in faster, since it’s already in my system. My legs don’t respond the way they should—as my muscle turns to dead weight, every step harder than the last.

My pulse slams against my skull, but I shove off the wall, willing myself forward, sheer instinct dragging me three paces before my knees hit the concrete.

Hard.

Pain fractures through my shins, but it’s distant. Drowned by the chemical fog bleeding into my veins.

A shadow moves. The silhouette sharpens as it steps into the light—and the second I hear the voice, I know.

“Hello, Steven.”

My blood runs colder than the concrete beneath me.

No.

It can’t be her.

That voice doesn’t belong here. It belongs to a nightmare I buried in a different life—wrapped in fire and gunfire and the smell of burned skin.

“Get him tied back to that chair,” she says, calm as ever. “And do it tighter this time. If he breaks out again, I’ll cut your fucking hands off myself.”

Leather boots scrape behind me as hands grab my shoulders, jerking me upright with the grace of a butcher lifting meat. The rope bites into my skin, tighter this time. I feel my blood throb beneath it.