Page 238 of His To Erase

I tug my sleeves down, trying to ground myself with the feel of fabric against my skin. But my hands won’t stop shaking. I tell myself it’s adrenaline—that it’s just the come-down after everything. But it’s not. It’s him. It’s everything.

Every step I took in that building was a scream I never let out. Every flame was a truth I buried just to survive.

The streetlights flicker above me, humming softly like they know something I don’t. My brain’s spiraling—Steven. The club. The message. That fucking video. It cuts deeper the longer it echoes.

God. I should’ve just gone home and called the police like a normal person.

I should’ve called Sarah, and curled up in my bed and waited this out like a sane person. But no—I had to go full feral. I had to light a match and pretend it would fix something.

So I keep walking. Fast. My feet are taking me somewhere—whether it’s toward redemption or a fucking funeral. Honestly, I’m not sure I care which.

That’s when I feel it.

A prickle at the base of my neck. Not the kind of chill that brushes past you, but the kind that sinks under your skin and settles in your spine.

I glance over my shoulder, heart thudding in my throat, but nothing. Just a quiet street, a stray breeze, and my own suffocating paranoia trying to crawl up my throat.

I shake it off and pick up the pace. I’m only a few blocks from home. If I can just make it to my door—get inside, take a shower, clear my head?—

I’ll be fine. I’ll be better. I’ll?—

A car door slams and I freeze.

“Hey,” a voice purrs, smooth and smug. “Need a ride?”

Ani

My wrists ache. Which… yeah, sounds about right—considering they’re zip-tied behind my back so tight it feels like the plastic is fused to bone. My head is pounding, my lips are wet and coppery, and every time I blink, the room spins.

There’s too much silence, and I don’t know where the fuck I am. I sure as fuck am not my apartment, and I know I’m not at Steven’s place.

Panic claws up my throat.

I blink a few times as my vision clears just enough to catch the soft glow of light filtering through the window. At least I have a soft rug beneath me like this is some fucked-up slumber party. Except in this version, the host tied me up, backhanded me across the face, and called me a whore for letting someone else make me come.

Footsteps echo beyond the closed door. I test the zip ties, clenching my jaw, and bite back a hiss.Okay, so those aren’t coming off that easily. Noted.

The door swings open, and Frank steps inside—only to stop short when he sees me still on the floor, lips swollen and cheek split.

For a second, something stupid flickers in my chest. Relief, maybe. Some leftover, delusional part of me that still thinks he might’ve come to help. But then I see his face.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

I smile, and I can feel the blood painting my teeth. “Aw. You’re still here. I was hoping it was all a wet dream.”

His jaw tightens.Good. Let it piss him off.He didn’t even flinch at the sight of me like this. I don’t know who hit me, but if he didn’t put a stop to it, that means he let it happen.

“Stand up,” he says.

“Can’t,” I shoot back, voice sweet and sour. “I’m allergic to bullshit.”

He crosses the room in three strides and yanks me up by the arm like I’m not a person, just some object that stopped behaving the way he wanted. My shoulder screams in protest, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. I let my head loll slightly to the side, limp enough to piss him off, but not enough to lose balance.

The second he gives me an opening, I’m taking it—and this time, I’m not pulling punches.

His fingers clamp around my jaw, rough and possessive, tilting my face. His gaze lingers on the split in my lip, and the bruising that I’m sure is already blooming across my cheek.

Then, without a word, he slices the zip ties from my wrists.