Page 247 of His To Erase

No black.

I try the second drawer and it’s worse. It’s all pajamas. Or at least his version of them—if you define sleepwear as slinky, see-through things a billionaire buys his mistress before flying home to his wife.

I hold one up and actually snort. It’s sleeveless, translucent, and stitched together with enough bad intentions to make even a mannequin blush.

The third drawer makes my blood pressure spike.

Accessories.

Pearl hairpins. Silk scrunchies. A velvet choker that practically vibrates with the word obedient. I shut it fast enough to rattle the handles.

“Jesus, Frank. All this effort and not one bulletproof escape rope?”

I don’t even realize I’m moving until I’m already storming into the bathroom. I start scanning the space like a crime scene investigator on caffeine.

If I find a perfume bottle labeled Stockholm Syndrome, I swear to God…instead, I find tampons. A toothbrush. And a brand-new razor.

As if a man who slaps me one minute and kisses my forehead the next gets to hand-select my shaving tools.

God forbid your hostage has stubble.

I hold it for a second—then toss it straight into the trash and it lands with a soft thunk. I stare at it like it might jump back out and crawl across the floor with a little bow on top. And then… I have an idea.

If he thinks he can just dye my hair—and erase everything that feels like me—then he doesn’t get to keep any part of it.

If he wants a version of me he can mold, he’s going to learn the hard way—I’ll carve myself into something else first.

If I sit around doing nothing I’ll have time to think, and then I’ll remember the way Stevens’s fingers brushed my jaw when he said I was his.

If I think, I’ll spiral.

And right now, I can’t afford to spiral. Not when I’m still a hostage, not when my memory is playing goddamn hopscotch.

God.

He was the only person who looked at me like I was a fucking storm and still chose to walk into it. He touched me like I was breakable and brutal at the same time and always kissed me like he was starving.Do you know what that does to a girl?

He took me apart like he already knew how to put me back together. And now, I don’t even know where he is, or if he’s alive.

My thoughts go straight to wondering if Frank was telling the truth? What if I was just leverage?

I want to laugh, but the sound gets lodged somewhere between my ribs and my rage. Because even if it’s true—even if every look, every touch, every whisperedminewas a lie—Steven didn’t buy me.

Frank did.

And that alone tells me everything I need to know.

Whether Frank’s lying or not, whether Steven’s a monster or the only man who’s ever touched me like I was real—I’m still here, locked in a fucking dollhouse. If I don’t get out now…I might not get another shot.

I move fast. Checking under the bed, behind the dresser, in the closet, the windows, nothing.

I don’t have my phone, but I do have an uncanny ability to lie to men who underestimate me.

Steven

The room is too quiet. It’s pressing in on my ears and now even my own breath sounds wrong. It’s slow and not nearly as shallow as it should be considering I woke up in a pool of my own blood.

Again.