Page 258 of His To Erase

I know I shouldn’t keep pushing him, but I have a sneaking suspicion he needs me alive. If I’m wrong, then at least I’m going out with a bang. Because over my dead body am I going to just sit here and take it.

“Right. Show up on time. Don’t sass the psycho. Try the wine pairing.”

He slaps me. Hard. My head jerks sideways, and the sting is instant. My vision whites out for half a second, but I don’t fall.

I straighten slowly and I laugh because if I don’t, I might cry. My face is starting to really hurt.

He grabs a fist full of my hair, yanking me forward until I’m inches from his face.

“You want to die here?” he growls. “You want to test how far I’m willing to go to break you?”

I grin through the pain, wondering just how far I’m toeing the line between tough and stupid.

He throws me into the chair at the table. Hard enough that the chair skids back an inch and almost tips over. He’s breathing heavy now, and I can see that the vein in his temple is pulsing.

Good. Let him be mad. Mad men make mistakes.

He pours a glass of wine with a hand that’s too steady for someone vibrating with rage.

“Drink,” he says.

I take the glass, sipping as little as possible, then setting it down. He slams his fist onto the table so hard the glass jumps.

“I could’ve killed you the night I found you.”

“But you didn’t.”

Silence.

He stares at me like he wants to set me on fire and fuck the ashes. Then he smiles and it’s terrifying.

I just need to shut up, chew my food and nod like a good little captive, and pretend I’m one of those mafia wives on Instagram who decorates with gold skulls and thinks emotional abuse is romantic.

I take another sip before I can stop myself. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong. Maybe if I’m drunk, it won’t suck as badly. Dangerous logic, I know—slippery slope, this captive shit. But it’s easier than acknowledging the chill crawling up my spine like a warning I’m too fucking tired to listen to.

I pick at my plate. Across from me, Frank eats like we’re at a fucking gala. Every bite is calculated. It’s not just unsettling. It’s unnerving in that quiet, crawling way that makes you want to scream just to prove you're still in your own body.

“You always eat like a serial killer?” I ask, stabbing a piece of asparagus.

He doesn’t look up. “You always talk when you should shut your fucking mouth?”

Touché.

Yes, Ani. Shut the fuck up.

But my mouth keeps moving. Apparently, sarcasm isn’t just my love language it’s also my favorite weapon.

“Let me guess—now comes the tragic backstory and the part where I’m supposed to feel flattered?”

That gets his attention.

He sets his utensils down with deliberate calm, then wipes his mouth with his napkin. When he looks up, he’s smiling.

“The alley,” he says, like I’m supposed to follow his train of thought.

I freeze. The fork is still in my hand, halfway to my plate, but I can’t move. My stomach twists—I have a feeling I’m not going to like this. His gaze sharpens like he can hear the question forming in my head.

“You thought that was a coincidence,” he says, mocking me. “You thought you just… ran into me. Saved me.”