Page 88 of His To Erase

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.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and it’s somehow worse than a scream. My grip tightens around the fork as he leans back in his chair, like he’s settling in to relive his favorite story.

“I had to make it believable,” he says. “It was the best I could come up with, in the time I had. Blood and just enough groaning to sound pitiful. The timing had to be perfect.”

I blink. Once. Hard. “You... what?”

He just smiles, tilting his head. I wait for him to say more, to correct himself, to tell me I misheard.

My stomach drops. “You—” My voice falters. “You stabbed yourself?”

His smile sharpens, but he still doesn’t answer. Silence stretches so long it turns into dread.

“You stabbed yourself,” I repeat, quieter this time—more to myself than him. Like if I say it enough, it’ll start making sense.

“I had to get your attention somehow.” He shrugs. “Nothing vital obviously. It was shallow enough to bleed, but deep enough to sell it. And your bleeding heart fucking fell for it.”

He grins like I’m supposed to be impressed.

“You knelt down,” he adds, voice turning soft and mocking all at once. “Touched me. Whispered, ‘It’s okay, I’ve got you.’ You looked so scared, and so sweet.”

My stomach flips so violently it’s like my body’s rejecting the entire scene. I shove the plate away, my appetite suddenly gone.

“Are you seriously proud of that?” I snap, my voice tighter than I want it to be.

“Of course.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “It worked.”

I stare at him while rage burns up my spine like acid. “You faked an attack. You hurt yourself. Just to get my attention.”

He raises his glass in a slow, mocking toast. “To fate.”

And for a second—I almost laugh. Because what the actual hell is this? A man stabbing himself to win me over? The bar really is on the floor.

“You’re fucking insane.”

He shrugs like I just complimented his tie. “You’re just mad I fooled you.”

He leans in, propping his elbows on the table, tapping two fingers to his temple. “That was just the day I stopped pretending.”

And just like that—something breaks. All I can fucking think is that someone out there stabbed themselves just to get close to me. Beneath the jokes and the sarcasm I like to call a personality, I’m spiraling. Fast.

This man—this thing—just rewrote a memory I’ve been clinging to like a lifeline. The one night I thought that maybe I’d done something good. Something that made me feel like me. And now he’s sitting there, smiling like he wants a thank-you card for weaponizing it.

I reach for my wine—not to drink it. Just to keep my hands busy.

He stabbed himself. For attention. Jesus.

All I did was kneel down and offer a stranger help. But in Frank’s world that’s apparently as good as a fucking proposal.

I lean forward, matching his intensity, refusing to blink. “You were background noise on my trauma playlist, Frank. I would’ve helped anyone. That doesn’t make you special.”

Then his hand shoots out, sweeping his plate, his glass, the entire goddamn centerpiece off the table. The sound of porcelain shattering rings out like gunfire.

I don’t flinch, even though I want to. My body’s screaming, my skin’s crawling, and I feel like I might throw up right here in front of him. But I don’t give him that. Because if I do—he wins. And I’d rather choke on my fear than let him taste it.

He stands slowly, chest rising and falling. One hand goes to the back of his neck as he tugs on the collar of his shirt like it’s choking him and exhales.

He quickly composes himself. Then fixes me with a stare that should come with a body count.

“Get up,” he says.

My heart stutters.

“Come here.”

I don’t move.

He takes a step around the table.

“Now.”

I stand, not being able to stomach what will happen if I don’t right now.

I’m not actually trying to die tonight. My legs feel numb and my stomach turns to lead.

I take one step, then another. I stop a few feet in front of him and he looks down at me like he wants to build a shrine and burn it down in the same breath.

He raises a hand and for the first time tonight…I think he might actually kill me.

My breath catches as every muscle in my body coils, preparing to take the hit. I brace for impact, but the strike doesn’t come. He drops his hand, straightening his jacket and when he speaks, his voice is cold. Lethal.

“You’re lucky I have to wait.”

The words slide down my spine like ice water. Wait? For what?

“If I didn’t need your signature… you would be in pieces on this floor.”

My stomach lurches, but I don’t move. He takes a slow step toward me, his presence swallowing mine. I want to take a step back, but I don’t. Because prey runs, and I am not prey. Even if I feel like it.

He tilts his head, studying me. “I’ve killed men for less than what you said tonight,” he murmurs.

His hand lifts again—not to hit me, but to trace a line down my cheek.

I go still. Paralyzed by the pressure of his thumb brushing under my eye.

“But your mouth…” he whispers, smiling now—tight and cruel. “Will be the death of you.”

He leans down until his lips are just above my ear. “You think I’m cruel now?” he breathes. “You haven’t seen what I do to women who forget their place.”

The chill that runs through me this time is different. It’s colder, deeper. And it buries itself in my bones.

“Go back to your room.”

I blink. “What?”

“Now.”

The rage is gone again, wiped clean beneath that same sharp control I’ve come to expect. I hesitate, a little too slowly for him I guess. He grabs my wrist and starts walking, dragging me toward the dining room door without another word.

He opens it, and shoves me through, slamming the door behind me. The sound ricochets down the hallway and I stumble back, heart hammering in my chest. My pulse pounds so loud it drowns out everything else. And for the first time in days, escape isn’t what flashes through my mind.

Survival is.