Page 92 of His To Erase

Steven

“FUCK.”

The word rips out of me, ricocheting off the walls like a warning shot. I’m already on my feet, pacing like a caged animal. Movement’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

Across the room, Travis types like the devil’s at the door, or in this case me. His fingers blur over the keyboard. He’s a fucking machine running on caffeine and chaos. But it’s still not fast enough.

None of it is.

I drag a hand down my face for the tenth time, but it doesn’t help. My skin itches with the need to do something. To rip something apart.

The silence is a noose, and the waiting is nothing less than torture.

My pulse is in my ears, a war drum that won’t fucking stop. Every breath feels like a countdown to the moment I lose what’s left of my control.

She’s gone.

I don’t know where she is or what he’s doing to her, and that’s the part that guts me. The not knowing. The silence. The thousand ways she could be hurting while I’m standing here doing nothing.

I see her in flashes—on the floor somewhere, covered in blood, still waiting for someone who never should’ve let her go.

My fists crack as I clench them harder. I pace the apartment like it’s a cage, boots hitting the floor with purpose.

He took her.

He touched what’s mine.

He was already dead the second I found out he was here. But now? Now I want him to beg for it.

I snap. “Say something.”

He doesn’t even pause. Then—finally— “Got her.”

Everything in me goes still. “What?”

He shoves the laptop toward me. “Private airstrip. No manifests filed under Frank’s name, but the tail number you gave me pinged. He’s taking her to Puerto Rico.”

I stare at the screen like it’s trying to fuck with me. “Repeat that.”

His voice drops, no smart-ass remark this time. “You heard me. She’s en route. The jet left forty minutes ago. He’s running her straight into the lion’s den.”

He pauses. “You’ve got an hour. Maybe less,” he adds, eyes back on the data. “My contact says they’re planning to move her into the system tonight. Once she’s verified, it’s done. Locked. You won’t get near her.”

“We’re leaving,” I snap, already crossing the room. “Tell them to fuel up.”

Travis looks up—grim now, clenching his jaw. “They’ll be expecting both of us. He knows you’ll come. If I’m with you, they’ll shut every door before you touch the ground.”

“Then I go alone.”

He doesn’t argue. He just nods once. “Fucking hell.”

Then—he stops. Eyes fixed on the screen. “Wait…”

I turn, walking back slowly. “What?”

Travis scrolls. Clicks. Clicks again. His fingers still, just long enough to hit enter. Then everything about him shifts.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, turning the screen toward me. “So, uh… turns out there’s a clause. Buried deep in the estate paperwork—like really deep. Took me three hours and an old decryption key to even get to it.”

Steven’s already glaring. “Spit it out.”

“If the heir is alive, married, and physically present on the land, they become the primary controller of the estate. Everything gets locked to them. Assets, holdings, power of transfer—all of it. But here's the kicker.”

He pauses. “The signature has to happen on the property. No remote access, no legal proxy, no workaround. It’s old blood code shit. Written before digital records were even a thing.”

Silence.

“That’s why he hasn’t killed her,” I say quietly.

Travis nods. “Nope. He’s just waiting for the wedding and the signature. Once she signs… it’s over. It’s all his.”

My jaw tightens. “She doesn’t even know what she’s holding.”

“No. But Frank does.”

He pauses. “If deceased—or missing more than five years—it defaults to the spouse of record.”

My vision narrows until there’s nothing but blood. I don’t care what I have to destroy—what I have to burn. I’ll rip that fucking island apart brick by brick before I let him put his hands on her.

I glance over and he’s staring at the screen so intensely, I almost expect the monitor to crack.

“Find what you can,” I bark, grabbing my bag. “Send me everything else.”

“Wait—” He exhales.

By the time he turns the screen, I’m already halfway to the door.

It’s in my bones now. That old rhythm. The kind of burn I spent years learning how to leash. The kind I only let out when it’s already too late for mercy.

But this isn’t a mission. This is personal.

Someone touched her. Someone took her. Laid hands on her body. Tried to control her. I saw the bruises. Even in that short, pixelated clip Frank thought was enough to break me.

They don’t get to walk away from that and keep breathing.

My phone buzzes and I answer without looking. “Talk.”

“Her grandfather’s name was Emilio Rivera,” he says.

The name slams into me, it sounds so fucking familar.

Fuck.

I’ve heard it before. Whispered in the kind of circles I used to haunt—rooms full of power cloaked in shadows. Rivera was the kind of man people lowered their voice for because he didn’t need a title. He already owned everything that mattered.

“Bayamón,” I mutter, the name bitter on my tongue. “He ruled it like a goddamn king—kept everyone on a leash and made them thank him for the privilege.”

“Not just ports,” he mutters. “Land. Arms. Trade routes. Multiple offshore accounts under Rivera Holdings. He had his hand everywhere—political, military, global. Old-world power. The kind passed through bloodlines.”

I stare out the window as the plane begins its descent. The island spreads beneath us in endless shades of green, veined with shadows that look too familiar.

“Tell me he’s alive.” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Doubt it,” he says. “Found some coded files. Internal chatter flagged a private alert three years ago. He was sick—but not that sick.”

The tap of keys fills the silence between us.

“Here’s the interesting part,” he mutters. “Next of kin was listed as a son. On paper, it all looked clean. But I’m about to prove that document was forged.”

My grip tightens around the phone. I don’t speak yet. Just breathe through the static building behind my eyes. How is this happening and how the fuck did I miss this?

I shut my eyes. “You’re telling me this whole thing—”

“Yup.” He exhales hard, like he’s been holding it in since the second I walked out that door. And suddenly it all clicks. Frank didn’t just find her. He hunted her. Tracked her down and played the long game, waiting until he could own her on paper the way he already thought he did in his head.

“He needs her alive,” I mutter, the words scraping my throat.

“Alive and obedient,” he confirms. “Marriage gives him everything. As soon as she signs that form, the Rivera empire is his.”

My chest goes tight. But it’s what he says next that knocks the breath clean out of me.

“Hey, Steven.”

He never calls me that. Not even on that evacuation mission. Not after the bloodbaths. Not even when I flatlined for 46 seconds in Morocco and came back pissed as hell the target got away. It was only for 5 hours but still. If he’s saying my name now. It’s bad.

“Just tell me,” I breathe.

He clears his throat. “There’s a private auction for offshore buyers only.” He pauses. “It goes live tonight.”

Motherfucker.

I go still. My body doesn’t even register the turbulence. I’m past logic. Past forgiveness. I stare out the window, willing the clouds to part and show me where she is. Some sign. Anything. Because until I see her—until I touch her—I can’t think about what the other options look like.

I know what she looks like when she’s scared and trying not to be. I know how her breathing changes when she lies. I know the way her jaw ticks when she’s swallowing a scream. And the idea that Frank might’ve seen that—might’ve touched her—

My fists tighten as something cracks in my chest and lodges under my ribs, too sharp to be rage, but too familiar to be anything but grief. I haven’t cried since grade school. Not even when I lost everything. But this—the thought of losing her? I can’t even fucking go there.

If I’m too late— if she’s hurt, or he married her, I’ll kill him. I’ll take him apart piece by piece and make sure he knows exactly why. I’ll burn his empire and salt the fucking earth with the ashes of everything he thought he owned.

“Hey.” Travis’s voice cuts in. I forgot I was still on the phone. “Don’t go there, man.” The silence stretches. “You lose your head, he wins.”

I nod once, and hang up. He’s right. Emotion makes you sloppy and I won’t get to be sloppy. Not now. Not for her. Not when everything’s on the line. This is what I like to call the calm before the reckoning.

The plane shudders on descent, and my phone buzzes in my palm again.

“I forwarded you everything I pulled so far—estate layout, floorplans, security grid, lawyer’s name. And hey—I called in a few markers. Some friends of mine will be waiting when you land. Ex-military. Discharged dirty, but you can trust ’em.”

I nod even though he can’t see me. “How many?”

“Three.”

It’s going to have to be enough.

The plane touches down with a slow, hungry screech. The sound feels like a blade dragging across my spine.

I don’t relax. Every second I’m on the ground is one more she’s in his hands. One more second she might be hurt. Stripped. Branded. Married off like some pawn. I missed it because I let my dick get ahead of the mission.

I fucked up. I can’t stop thinking about what it’s going to cost me if I’m not fast enough.

The hangar doors creak open and the Puerto Rican heat slams into me. The sun’s almost down, and trees swallow the sky.

And there—at the edge of the landing strip—is a beat-up black SUV. Three men lean against it like they’ve been here since the island was born.

They straighten when I approach. The one in front steps forward, holding out a hand.

“Cruz.” he introduces himself. He’s a big guy. Broad shoulders, tan skin, forearms thick with muscle. He’s got three scars across his knuckle. The kind you only get in close-quarters work. “You’re the guy who’s gonna burn this place down for a girl, yeah?”

I don’t take his hand at first. “She’s not a girl,” I say evenly. “She’s mine.”

He nods once, like that tells him everything he needs to know.

After a beat, I reach out to shake his hand. “Appreciate the help,” I add. “Let’s get this done.”

“Good enough for me.” He jerks his chin toward the truck. “We’ll brief inside.”

The vehicle smells like oil and cigarettes. The interior’s stripped down, and is now filled with weapons, folded maps, old intel scrawled in sharpie across crinkled paper. If this were any other time, I would admire it.

The driver—Rico—is quiet. The other guy, lean build, older, with eyes like a hawk’s name is Silva. The sniper.

Cruz turns in his seat. “Estate’s up in Bayamón. Heavy canopy. Gated. Long drive. We scoped it this morning—the entry’s clear for now, but they’ve got patrols. Cameras. Satellite coverage shows four exits, but we can’t confirm what’s active on the interior.”

“Guards?”

“Ten, minimum, surround the perimeter. And if this Frank guy has half the pull your guy said—he’s got people inside, too.”

I nod, already expecting that.

“I say we wait. Hit it in the morning at shift change, we get two blind spots—front and rear. The easiest window is going to be at 5:45 AM. Sun’s just up, guard swap happens at the gate, and staff rolls in around six.”

He glances back at me like he just gave me a gift.

I meet his stare, dead calm. “No.”

Rico glances up. “What?”

“I’m not waiting.”

Cruz frowns. “We move now, we hit hard resistance. No blind spots. We don’t know who’s inside.”

“I don’t care.”

I lean in closer, trying to keep my shit together. “I don’t care if there’s fifty men with guns and a fucking tank parked in the garden. She’s in there. And I’m not leaving her for another goddamn hour.”

My voice isn’t raised, but it lands like a threat. Cruz opens his mouth like he’s about to push back, then sees my face and thinks better of it. I’m not bluffing.

The only fucking thing I can think about right now is all noise—images of her skin banged up, all the fucked up shit Frank might be making her do. Fuck.

Silva nods once. “Then we move now. We do a shadow sweep, we’ll find the quietest entry point. Breach and burn.”

Maybe he’s actually the one in charge. Wouldn’t surprise me. He seems smart. Knows when to talk, when to move, when to shut the fuck up and listen.

That’s the kind of man I want beside me when shit goes sideways in there. With Calissi you never know.

“There’s two pressure sensors on the main gate. One under the west garden stones—probably old, but can’t be too sure. East perimeter’s got a blind spot if we cut the feed here.” He taps the screen. “Ten yards inside the fence.”

I nod. “We take the east. I want eyes on the master suite first.”

“We can’t use any aerial drones,” Cruz mutters. “It’ll trip perimeter detection.”

“Don’t need one,” I say. “I know the layout.”

They glance at me. I’ve studied every inch of that house in the last few hours. Memorized it. Every angle. Every line of sight. Every spot that might hold a camera—or her. If she’s behind one of those windows, I’ll find her. And if she’s not? Then someone’s going to bleed until I get an answer.

We load up in silence. This is the kind of quiet I trust.

Hang on, Dear. Just a little bit longer.