Page 82 of His To Erase

“I’ll give you some time,” he calls back effortlessly. “Get your head on straight.”

The lock clicks shut.

The silence after Frank leaves is a special kind of loud. It hums under my skin like a static that says he’s not done.

I pace, because sitting still makes me feel caged—and if I stop moving, the panic might catch up.

My cheek still burns where his ring left a message I never asked for. I move toward the window and press my fingertips to the cold glass. Outside, it’s just black sky and that one stubborn star I used to wish on like it was listening.

Did you think I wouldn’t know the difference between someone fucking you and being claimed?

Steven did something to me. Not just touched me—he marked me. He got under my skin in a way that won’t wash off.

But what the hell does Frank know? What does Steven know?

Fuck! I want to scream.

The two men in my life aren’t who I thought they were and maybe they never were. Steven showed up like a storm I didn’t see coming, and Frank slithered in wearing charm like armor. And somehow, I let both of them close. Now they’re circling each other like wolves, and I’m just... in the middle.

How did I end up being something they both want for reasons I don’t understand—and didn’t agree to.

I keep trying to find solid ground, but every answer I get just tilts the world more sideways and all I have is more questions. The drugs in my system are making it hard to focus.

One second I’m breathing, and the next, I’m drowning.

I’m not in this room anymore. I’m small. Eight, maybe nine. It’s hard to tell—time doesn’t move right in this place. There’s yelling, a man’s voice cutting through the air like broken glass, and my mother’s crying. Not the quiet kind either.

The whole room reeks, smelling like something sour, something that burns the back of my throat before I even breathe it in.

I’m holding a folder tight to my chest. It’s thick and heavy. My arms are shaking, but I don’t let go. There’s a bunch of cash, crumpled papers, and a passport I’m not supposed to see.

My name is on it, and suddenly I know—whatever this is...I’m not coming back.

All I remember after that is a hand grabbing my arm, dragging me toward the door.

The voice in my ear is low and urgent, whispered in Spanish. “No mires atrás.”

Don’t look back.

My feet move before my brain does. Then it’s all motion. A car. A plane. A hallway that won’t end.

I can’t hear anything past the sound of my heartbeat, pounding like a countdown I didn’t start. My body’s moving through time, through space, but my mind is frozen in that second—right where everything cracked open.

I snap out of it when I hear a man’s voice in the hallway.

Shit. Frank.

The memory slips through my fingers like smoke as instinct takes over. I don’t move. Not until the door creaks open and he steps inside with that same slow, smug ease he always wears.

He hums under his breath, strolling toward me. His fingers brush my jaw, soft enough to make my skin crawl. I tense and pull away. The thought of him touching me now, makes me sick.

“I told you,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over the split in my lip. “No one else touches what’s mine.”

The heat behind the words makes my stomach twist, bile licking the back of my throat. But I keep my voice light, because it’s the only thing I’ve got left.

“And here I thought you were a businessman,” I murmur. “Not a fucking caveman.”

The slap comes faster than I expect—and sharp enough to blur the world for a second and paint stars behind my eyes. I bite down on the scream. All I can feel is the rage swelling beneath my skin.

I straighten slowly, licking the blood from my lip. Again.

That’s what—number three? God, I’m getting really tired of this. At least it’s only a slap. Small favors.

“Okay, Frankie,” I mutter, trying to mask the panic that’s creeping in. “I think the slapping’s getting old.”

His jaw twitches. Then he takes a step closer.

I smile. “Don’t tell me that’s what gets you hard.”

I shouldn’t say it. I know I shouldn’t. But it’s already out, and I’m running out of fucks to give.

I glance down—and sure enough, when I actually see it—I laugh. It’s a sound that scrapes my throat raw and tastes like gasoline.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I giggle. “You hit me and now you’re hard? Shit, maybe I’ve been giving you too much credit. I thought all those nice dates and big words meant you wanted something real. But no. Turns out all you really need is a girl who bleeds pretty, huh?”

Something cracks behind his eyes, and I see it too late.

He lunges—grabbing my arms, yanking me against him. My back slams into the nearest wall and he cages me there with his body. His breath is hot and wild against my face.

“You think this is funny?” he hisses.

“No,” I say calmly, even though my breath is shaking. “I think it’s a fucking horror story. And you’re just pissed I stopped swooning long enough to notice.”

His grip tightens.

“Oh, baby doll,” he murmurs. “I paid for you.”

The words don’t register at first.

“I bought you,” he says again, more force now. “Like a goddamn investment. I’m starting to think you’re more trouble than the money was worth.”

And just like that, the air gets knocked out of the room. My body goes still. My brain scrambles for understanding, but all I can do is blink. Because what the fuck did he just say?

“I knew you were too good to be true,” he says, like he’s admiring a painting. “All that fire. All that fight. You really thought the world was gonna let you keep it?”

He leans closer, and the smile on his face makes me want to puke.

“No, sweetheart. Girls like you don’t get freedom. You get owned.” His breath is hot against my ear, and I swear my soul tries to crawl out of my skin. “Girls like you are meant to be fucked into obedience.”

My stomach flips so violently I have to bite my tongue so I don’t gag. He pulls back just far enough to watch it land—to watch the truth carve me open.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he adds, cruel now. “You think I bought you for your winning personality?”

No, no, no, no. He’s lying. He has to be lying.

Everything I couldn’t remember suddenly has a shape. The shadow in the room. The voice in my ear. The hands that dragged me.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t realize all that freedom you’ve been pretending to have came with a price tag?”

I can’t stop shaking. My mouth opens, then closes.

“I never—” My voice breaks. “I never agreed—”

He chuckles. “You didn’t have to. The deal was sealed the second your ex decided you were worth more on paper than in his bed.”

I stagger back like he hit me again. My hand finds the wall, and my legs don’t feel real.

This can’t be happening.

This whole time—this entire fucking time—I thought I escaped.

If he thinks he can keep me here after this, he’s got another thing coming. I don’t care if it takes fire, blood, or what’s left of my sanity—I will burn my way out.

He grabs my jaw, squeezing until it aches. “You’re mine, Anianne. You have been. Even before I bought you.”

He releases me and starts pacing. “I gave your boyfriend a story,” he says. “Paid him off to spin a little fairytale about the two of you moving off to paradise.”

My stomach lurches.

“You don’t remember that part, do you?” He taunts. “Don’t worry. That’s what happens when you get hit hard enough. It all gets a little fuzzy.”

He’s still talking—like this is a bedtime story and he’s tucking me in with a fucking confession. He’s so fucking deranged, he’s acting like I’m supposed to feel grateful he cleaned up my past before wrapping a leash around my throat.

“You were supposed to go with him,” he says, like we’re swapping memories over coffee. “He was paid to deliver you. Nice and easy. A drop-off at the edge of town, nothing more.”

He pauses—just long enough to let the next part hit harder.

“But you got mouthy and started asking questions. Then you tried to run.” His smile is cold. “So we had to improvise and make other arrangements.”

My throat dries up.

Other arrangements?

A spark flares in the back of my mind. I try to grab it, but it’s no use.

“You—” I choke on the word. “What did you do?”

His smile turns razor sharp. “I made sure you landed exactly where I wanted you to.”

The walls start to tilt.

“Your boyfriend handled the paperwork and the bruises.” Frank’s voice turns gleeful. “He fought for a bonus too, selfish bastard.”

The blood drains from my face. I remember a fight, then being slapped. The floor. How cold it was, and the way his voice cracked when he said, ‘She’s your problem now.’

Oh my God.

My legs go numb, but I don’t fall.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” Frank croons. “All scratched up, with blood on your lip, but still swinging like a little street rat. That’s when I knew—I wasn’t going to waste you. You were too much fun.”

I take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go. The room spins, and all I can hear is the sound of my own breath—sharp and ragged. And then I hear something else.

“Please. I don’t want to go.”

My body being dragged, the sting of bleach in my nose, and the reek of cheap cigarettes.

Frank’s voice cuts through the memory like a serrated edge.

“I gave you everything,” he says. “Let you work. Gave you space. Let you breathe a little. But you—you fucked it all up because you had to be a fucking slut.”

My head snaps up so fast it makes me dizzy.

“I’ve been patient, Anianne.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But one thing I don’t do is share.”

He steps forward. “And I sure as fuck don’t lose.”

My body moves before my mind can catch up. I lunge, grabbing the lamp off the end table and hurling it with everything I have. It misses—shattering against the wall beside his head in a spectacular spray of glass.

“Don’t come near me.” My voice is shaking and so is my grip but I don’t step back.

Rage coils in my gut, terror climbs up my spine, and bile rises in my throat—each one trying to claw its way out first, like there's not enough room for all three.