Page 87 of His To Erase

I pace for hours. Back and forth across the hardwood, bare feet slapping the floor in an uneven rhythm that makes my skin itch. There’s no clock in the room and I don’t have my phone. The only sense of time I have is the light outside.

I’m not afraid of him. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere between lap twenty-seven or fifty, I hear footsteps and I freeze near the closet. Because if I’m going to die, I’ll do it standing. The door slams open and I know the second I see his face—he’s done pretending.

Frank’s jaw is tight, his hair slightly out of place. He looks like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes are black but he doesn’t speak. He just shuts the door behind him and locks it.

Don’t ask me how I know—call it gut instinct, survival reflex, whatever—but something happened. He’s pissed, more than usual, and there’s this edge to him now. Coiled tight, like he’s trying not to snap. Like someone fucked up, and I’m about to be the one who pays for it.

He crosses the room in two strides. I don’t have time to even flinch before his hand is around my throat, slamming me against the wall so hard the frame beside me falls and shatters.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I’m clawing his arms as my airway closes.

“You don’t get it do you?”

I try to speak, but it’s just a rasp, and he tightens his grip.

“I tried to be gentle,” he growls, vibrating with rage. “I tried to give you soft. Tried to give you a choice.”

I blink as the back spots dance across my vision.

“But you didn’t want soft, did you?” he snarls. “I see the bruises all over you.”

He lets go and I collapse to the floor, coughing and gasping for air, hands on my knees as the room spins.

He paces, then turns, facing me again. “I gave you the chance to make this easy.”

I lift my head, voice hoarse. “Yeah? And I gave you the chance to get a fucking hobby.”

He grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet, throwing me onto the bed like I’m weightless. For half a second, I think he’s going to climb on, and this is the moment I’m going to snap. But he doesn’t. Thank God.

Instead, he just stands at the foot of the bed. Chest heaving, with his hands flexing at his sides.

“You’ll remember this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “You’ll remember how I had no choice.”

Then he turns to the closet. His movements are calm now, calculated—like he’s flipped the switch back to his favorite setting. He pulls out a floor-length black dress that looks like something you’d bury a mafia bride in, and tosses it on the bed beside me.

“You’ll wear that tonight.”

My voice is raw when I speak. “And if I don’t?”

He smiles. And not in a charming way. “Then you’ll wear bruises instead. And nothing else.”

He moves toward the door, unlocking it with a click, and pauses. “You’ve got an hour to clean yourself up. Don’t be late.”

When I don’t answer, he chuckles. “Wear the dress. Or don’t,” he adds. “Either way, I’m taking what’s mine tonight.”

Then he’s gone.

Suddenly I can’t breathe and every nerve in my body goes rigid. I need to get the fuck out of here. Now. Before he decides he’s going to act on that and doesn’t need consent.

Of course it’s the only black thing in this room. It’s sleek, and barely a whisper of fabric. This is the kind of dress you wear if you want to look elegant while selling your soul in exchange for a yacht and a steady supply of imported champagne.

Which, coincidentally, is also what Frank smells like.

I hold it up between two fingers, it has thin straps, and a deep plunging neckline. There’s also a slit up the side high enough to start a conversation. There’s no way to wear this without being seen.

God, I hate him. How could I have ever been charmed by that fuck wad?

I toss the dress onto the bed and flop down beside it, flinging my arms dramatically overhead like I’m auditioning for the lead in Girl Who’s Definitely Not Having a Mental Breakdown.

“Great,” I mutter to the ceiling. “Look at me. Playing dress up for the man who’s most likely going to kill me.”

The camera blinks in the corner and I flip it off again. It's practically foreplay at this point, but I get up anyway because I’m not stupid. I know what happens if I don’t.

I’ve seen enough Lifetime thrillers to know that if a lunatic tells you to wear a dress and you show up in sweats, you don’t make it to the second act.

So I put it on. One leg, then the other. And the whole time I’m muttering to myself like I’m possessed.

“It’s fine. This is normal. Totally normal to be dressing up for your kidnapper-slash-stalker.”

The dress hugs my hips like it wants to apologize for everything my body’s been through. Yeah, well. I don’t accept. The shitty thing is, I look fucking amazing.

I reach for the perfume, spritzing my neck. I might as well smell good, especially if I’m about to die. I want to spray it in my palm and wipe it under my eye like war paint, but if I’m going to stab him, I need to be able to see.

“Dinner’s at seven,” I whisper mockingly to myself. “Don’t be late.”

I flip off the camera again for good measure, then I turn and start walking to the door. I’m pissed off, dressed like a sexy funeral ornament, and very much not in the mood to play house with the man who kidnapped me.

I look around for the clock that doesn’t exist, then glance at the blinking red light in the corner that definitely does.

“Okay,” I mutter, “I was told dinner was at seven.”

I look at the door and roll my eyes. “Oh my God. How am I supposed to know when it’s seven if I don’t have a fucking clock. You dumb, fucking idiot.”

I storm toward the door and rattle the knob.

“Heeellooo?” I shout, knocking so hard my fists hurt. “How am I supposed to be on time for dinner if you lock me in the fucking room?”

No answer.

Cool.

Love that for me.

I kick the bottom of the door lightly with my heel—not hard enough to hurt, obviously. But just enough to communicate that I’m this close to setting the curtains on fire out of sheer principle.

Finally, after another thirty seconds of me muttering to myself and threatening to scream, the lock clicks and the door swings open revealing some guy in black tactical casuals with the blandest face I’ve ever seen and a smile so polite it could be AI-generated.

“Right this way, miss.”

Miss?

He says it like I’m not being held hostage by the world’s most emotionally constipated narcissist. I look at him. Then the hallway. Then back at him.

“You gonna escort me with a taser or just vibes?” I ask sweetly.

He doesn’t answer. Just gestures down the hallway like this is a job he didn’t read the fine print on. I sigh, and step out.

“Lead the way, henchman number four,” I mutter. “Let’s go see what the king of daddy issues cooked up for dinner.”

Not a single crack in his features. Tough crowd.

I trail behind my escort—Mr. Tactical Boredom—as my heels click against the floor. Of course Frank added heels to the goth barbie look.

I clear my throat. Loudly. But get no response from my escort.

“Do you guys get paid hourly,” I ask, “or just in morally compromising bonuses and benefits?”

He just keeps walking.

I sigh. “Okay, cool, no talking. I get it. We must have similar childhoods.”

I take a few more steps. Then I glance sideways, smiling sweetly. “So… does he make all his prisoners dress for dinner?”

That gets me a glance. Barely a flick of his eyes, but it’s there. One tiny sliver of attention that almost resembles…pity?

Huh. I’ll just tuck that away for later or I’ll start crying.

That’s the kind of look you give someone heading into a room they don’t walk out of.

Can’t wait.

I square my shoulders, lifting my chin, and follow him like I’m not already counting exits, shadow lines, and weapon potential. Frank might’ve picked the dress, but I still decide how the night ends.

When the door opens into a room that looks like it belongs in a magazine, I suddenly feel sick. There’s candles lit on a table long enough to seat a small army of devoted followers—except there’s only one person sitting at it.

Frank.

And he looks pissed.

I take one step in and feel the temperature drop ten degrees and my guard steps aside without a word. Pussy.

I must have a death wish, because I smile. That’s what we do when we’re about to get murdered in luxury eveningwear, right? Fake it till you make it. Or until the champagne flute cracks across your face.

“Wow,” I say softly. “Romantic. You light all these candles yourself or did one of your minions get a promotion?”

He doesn’t move.

Shit.

“You’re late,” he says.

I take a few steps forward, heels clicking like gunshots across the marble.

“My door was locked,” I snap. “Kind of hard to be on time when your kidnapper forgets to include transportation in the fantasy.”

He stands slowly and I swallow, but keep my head high. He rounds the table without breaking eye contact. This sure doesn’t feel like dinner, it feels like a fucking execution.

“I gave you one rule,” he says quietly. “One.”

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.