Page 266 of His To Erase

Everything hurts. My head’s pounding, my throat’s dry, and it feels like I’ve been chewing on metal and regret.

It takes five full seconds before I register the leather seat beneath me. The seatbelt strapped tight across my hips, the blanket that’s covering me, and the zip ties.

My arms are restrained beneath the fabric like I’m part of the luggage. I turn my head—and there he is. Scrolling his phone like this is a business trip and I’m just carry-on.

My mouth’s too dry to form words at first. I try again, quieter this time. “Where are we?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance over. He just keeps scrolling, perfectly at ease while my stomach flips and my pulse tries to claw its way out of my chest.

The plane dips and the floor tilts beneath me. I think I’m going to be sick. I press my head back against the seat and close my eyes. Maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll think I’m unconscious. At this point, that might be the only card I’ve got left.

The hum of the engines deepens and I hear the landing gear drop with a metallic thunk that vibrates through the floor and straight into my spine. The cabin pressure shifts again, and my ears pop. My head throbs in response—thanks for that, by the way—but I don’t move. I just sit here. Breathing slowly and counting every sound, every detail, every goddamn second—because it’s the only control I have.

The zip ties around my wrists are a real buzz kill. The blanket is draped over me like an afterthought, and I can’t even fix it.Must be nice to underestimate me this much.

Outside, through the slit in the shade, I catch a flicker of green. Palm trees, maybe?

I squeeze my eyes tighter as the wheels hit the ground hard. My body jerks in the seat and I risk the smallest peek through my lashes.

He’s lounging across from me with one leg crossed over the other, phone to his ear, keeping his voice low. Whatever he’s saying is hushed, but urgent.

We step off the plane into heat thick enough to chew. It clings to my skin instantly, wet and heavy, crawling into my lungs and settling there like smoke. It’s not just hot—it’s humid and familiar in a way that makes my stomach pitch sideways and my skin prickle with something close to dread.

Frank’s hand clamps around my upper arm the second my foot hits the tarmac. Tighter than necessary.

As if I have anywhere left to run.

There’s no sound beyond the echo of our footsteps and the hum of the engines cooling behind us. The runway is deserted, except for one sleek black car parked fifty feet ahead. There’s two men standing guard beside it—suits, guns, and not a single blink between them.

There’s nothing but heatwaves rising off the concrete and the blinding white glare of the sun reflecting off every surface. It hurts to look at—but I do anyway. Because then I see it.

Aeropuerto Internacional Fernando Luis Ribas Dominicci.

Puerto Rico.

My chest tightens. Something pulls at the base of my spine—deep and unexplainable.

What are we doing in Puerto Rico?

I haven’t been back since I was a kid. Since my mother told me to stop asking questions and just keep packing. My heart starts pounding again, but it’s not fear. Not really. It’s something else.

“Keep your head down,” Frank mutters.

His voice is cold again. All business. Back to his usual brand of narcissistic God complex—with his shoulders straight and that silent assumption that the world should part for him wherever he walks.

I do as I’m told. Only because my skull still hurts from the last time I didn’t.

We reach the car, and the door swings open like it’s been waiting. No one speaks.

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a slap—freezing and sterile. I fold my arms in my lap, as best I can with my wrists tied together, like that’ll somehow help me stay calm, and I stare out the window trying not to freak out.

Bayamón.

The name flares in my mind like static—hot and foreign, yet familiar. I haven’t said it out loud in years.

We drive for what feels like forever—through winding roads, sun-baked hills, and fields of tall grass. The trees start to thicken, and the world closes in. Jungle wraps around the car like it’s trying to keep us out. Or maybe in.

The car turns off the main road. A long, curved driveway appears—lined with white stone pillars and palm trees so thick they block out the light. The gates open without a sound, and that’s when it hits me.