Page 81 of His To Erase

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.

“You let him touch you.”

“Touch me?” I fake a gasp. “Babe. He did more than touch. Want me to describe it? There was lots of tongue and at one point, I’m pretty sure I saw God.”

The slap comes faster than I expect—but I don’t flinch. And that’s what really pisses him off.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he growls.

“I know.” I grin, even as blood trickles down my chin. “It’s my best feature.”

He shoves me back hard, and I stumble, catching myself on the rug with one hand before I hit the floor completely. My palm scrapes against the carpet, rug burn blooming across my skin, but I don’t make a sound.

He stalks toward the window like he needs space just to keep from murdering me.

Give me sixty seconds and I’ll be the one dragging his body through the backyard with my boot print on his throat.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he says quietly.

I blink up at him, all faux innocence. “Did I forget your birthday or something?”

His head turns slightly. “You think this is about a club?”

“Everything’s about a club when you’re a narcissist with a VIP complex.”

His lips twitch, and it shouldn’t hurt—but it does. Because even now, after everything, he still doesn’t take me seriously. I was never a threat to him. Just a toy that got mouthy.

“You always had a smart mouth,” he says.

“And you always had a God complex. We all have our shit, Frankie.”

His eyes flash. “Don’t call me that.”

“Relax. It’s not like anyone else calls you anything worth remembering.”

His face doesn’t change, but I see the twitch in his jaw, and for a second, it almost looks like he might laugh. But then something shifts. That crack in his mask goes still and he takes a single step forward. The shift in his energy is instant. I don’t even have time to brace before he’s on me.

His hand clamps around my throat, shoving me flat against the floor. My skull knocks the rug beneath me, and his body pins me like a weight I can’t escape. Fingers dig into my neck until my breath stutters, until the room starts to spin. His breath ghosts my cheek—hot, sour, and entirely too close.

“I don’t like sharing.”

I look up at him, lips curled, fury burning through the lack of oxygen. “Then you better kill me now, because I’m not yours—and I never fucking was.”

He leans closer, dragging his eyes down my face. “You’ve always been my favorite,” he murmurs. “Even when you didn’t know it.”

I tilt my head slightly, keeping my voice soft. “Aww. And here I thought I was just the most useful.”

A split-second pause. That’s all I get before the air shifts. I know I should shut the fuck up. I know this is the part where girls go quiet—where they plead, where they lower their eyes and pray they’ll be the exception to the rule.

But I’m not the exception. I never was.

If I’m going to die in this room, tied up and spit-shined—then I’m damn sure not going down quietly. But before I can savor the sting in his eyes, the door creaks behind him, and a new shadow steps into the room.

He’s massive. Broad shoulders, neck like a tree trunk, and that vacant look guys get when they’re built to break things, not think about them. He’s also wearing too much cologne and not nearly enough IQ behind the eyes.

“Careful, Frank,” I murmur, letting my eyes flick lazily to the guy still standing in the doorway. “Wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of company.”

There’s a beat of silence that’s just long enough for me to think. Maybe I pushed him too far. I really need to learn when to shut the fuck up.

The slap comes harder than the first. And that’s saying something, considering the last one already made my ears ring.

This one feels personal.

The sound cracks through the room like a whip, sharp enough to sting the air itself. My head snaps sideways and pain rips through my jaw as copper floods my tongue.

God, I’m so fucking tired of bleeding for men who can’t handle rejection.

For a second, all I see is white. And then he’s got me by the hair, yanking so hard my knees almost give out. I suck in a breath through my teeth, but I don’t cry out.

“You think mouthing off makes you brave?” he growls, his breath is rancid against my face. “You think just because I didn’t break you when I had the chance, I won’t do it now?”

I laugh. “Wasn’t sure you had the balls,” I rasp, dragging my gaze back to his. “Especially in front of an audience.”

The man behind him clears his throat, shifting his weight like he doesn’t want to get involved, but Frank doesn’t let go.

“You want answers?” he hisses. “Start remembering. Because next time I lay my hands on you, sweetheart—it’s not gonna be your cheek that bruises.”

His grip finally loosens and I stumble back, breathing like I’ve just surfaced from drowning. But I don’t cry, or scream. I just smile. As if I’m going to let him know how much he got to me.

Inside, though, I’m cracked open. There’s this sharp, crawling feeling under my skin like everything I thought I understood just burned down and I’m standing in the ashes, still trying to pretend it’s smoke and not fire.

This isn’t about temper or jealousy—this is control, and I’m the prize he thinks he owns.

My eyes dart without moving my head. The door is still cracked open behind them. Frank follows my glance, like a lion watching a rabbit twitch before it bolts.

“Don’t bother,” he says softly, and the threat under that one word slices clean, but I’m already moving.

I duck low, slamming my elbow into his ribs hard enough to hear the air leave him, and bolt for the door—only to get yanked back by the hood of my sweatshirt.

“Fuck—” My feet leave the ground as I crash into the wall, my breath knocking out of me in a wild gasp.

Frank’s hand grips my jaw as he leans in, calmly. “I let you play pretend,” he says, his voice filled with fury. “Let you run. Let you lie. I even let you fuck him.”

He tilts his head like he’s listening for the sound of my dignity shattering. “I can see him on you, doll.” His thumb drags slowly down the side of my neck—taunting me.

“The bruises on your skin. That look in your eye like someone finally touched you and meant it.” He leans in, dragging his tongue up the side of my face. “Don’t insult me by pretending I don’t know the difference between getting fucked and being claimed.”

A pause, and then—“And if you want him breathing by tomorrow? I’d stop testing how far I’m willing to go.”

My stomach lurches. No. No, no, no. He can’t mean—my blood runs cold, but I don’t react.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I whisper, and I hate how soft it sounds, but still trying to play it off.

Frank smirks. “You really thought he was different?” he asks, almost pitying. “Sweetheart… he’s been lying to you since the first night you met him.”

And just like that, the world tilts sideways. No. No, that can’t be right. Every breath, every glance, every fucking whisper in the dark—None of it was real? He has to be lying.

My chest tightens, like my ribs are trying to fold in on themselves. Was I the game?

He steps back and starts pacing, he’s clearly enjoying every second of this breakdown.

“Oh, he didn’t tell you why he came here? What he was looking for?” He shrugs, casually. “He’s not yours, Anianne. He’s mine.”

It slides under my skin before I can stop it, hooking into something tender. I laugh—sharp and breathless, but it sounds wrong in my own ears. “Bullshit.”

“Believe what you want,” he says with a shrug. “But you’ll figure it out. Just like before.”

Before? Before what?

Something stirs behind my ribs. But before I can ask, or rip the truth from his throat—he nods to the man behind him and turns toward the door.