Page 94 of His To Erase

The man pales. His hand trembles just enough to make the pen twitch over the paper, looking between the two of us.

Frank takes one step toward me, but this time I don’t flinch. I hold his stare, keeping my spine locked. I know what’s coming. I must’ve always known, otherwise I wouldn’t have run to Denver in the first place. But I’m done pretending.

This is a transaction signed in flesh and blood, and I’m the currency.

The silence stretches, letting the weight of it press into the walls until even the priest starts to squirm.

“Better get your money’s worth, Frankie,” I bite out.

My voice is shaking with something that might be fear—or maybe it’s just rage that finally found an edge sharp enough to cut.

“Because once I sign that paper, you won’t need me anymore.

You’ll get your empire. Your power. Your ego jerked off in ink. ”

His eye twitches.

“But let’s not pretend you want a wife,” I say, dropping my voice lower. “You want a puppet. And not even a willing one.”

He moves so fast, I don’t see him moving before the sound of his hand cracks across my face echoing like gunfire. My head whips sideways, and the floor rushes up before I can catch myself. My body hits the ground hard enough to make everything go quiet.

The taste of blood floods my mouth, and everything goes blurry for a second—long enough to register the priest frozen in place, looking between us.

I press my palms to the floor and shove myself upright, biting down on a gasp as the pain flares through my cheekbone.

My lip’s split, and I can taste blood, but I’m still breathing.

Maybe if I push him just a little further, piss him off enough, he’ll throw me back in that room and stall whatever sick plan he has for another day.

The pain’s worth it if it buys me time. If it gets me one inch closer to surviving this, I’ll do it.

Frank moves so he’s standing over me, breathing hard. His face isn’t smug anymore—it’s feral.

“You fucking bitch,” he hisses.

I laugh—barely, because honestly, everything fucking hurts. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck and then punted off a cliff for good measure. My body’s screaming at me to shut up and survive, but instead, I lift my chin. Blood’s in my mouth, and I spit it right between us—because, you know…

“Still think you’re man enough to keep me?”

That’s when he snaps. The second hit doesn’t come from his hand, it comes from his boot. And it goes straight into my ribs.

Agony explodes through me, and it’s brutal and all-consuming. I can’t breathe. I collapse onto my side, choking on air that won’t come.

Okay. So maybe this wasn’t my best plan. I figured he’d do what he always does—slap me around, throw a fit, maybe storm out and leave me ten minutes of oxygen. I didn’t expect this. Not the silence. Not the shift in his eyes like I’ve finally pushed too far.

The guy in the suit finally speaks up—quiet, and a little unsure. There’s hesitation in his voice, maybe even a flicker of fear, but it doesn’t matter. Frank’s rage steamrolls right over it like it never existed.

The third hit lands before the suited man can finish his sentence.

I don’t even know where it lands this time—jaw, temple, maybe the back of my head—but wherever it is, it hits hard enough to rattle something loose and sends my vision sideways.

The world tilts, and a wave of nausea crashes so hard it brings tears to my eyes.

My ears won’t stop ringing, and the metallic tang of blood stings the back of my throat.

Somewhere in all the static—something clicks.

This was never about the contract. Hell, it’s not even about business anymore. Or control. It’s a punishment for talking back, for existing on my feet instead of on my knees, and being the one thing he can’t seem to break without getting his hands bloody.

I curl around the pain, my body trying to protect itself on instinct, but I don’t scream.

Even if it would help, even if it might make him stop—I won’t give him the sound he wants.

A fist slams into my ribs—hard enough to crack something.

I fold, gasping, but there’s no time to catch my breath before his hand knots in my hair and jerks me back up.

Another hit, this time to my stomach, and the floor lurches beneath me.

I can’t tell if I’m standing or falling as I let out a whimper.

My knees buckle, but he’s already got my arm, dragging me up like a ragdoll.

I brace for the next hit. My feet scramble for the ground, but I can barely stay upright. Everything tilts, and my vision is tunneling fast—Then he shakes me. Hard and violently.

“You will sign,” he snarls, his spit hitting my cheek. “You will be mine. And you will fucking smile while you do it. Is that fucking clear?”

I blink hard, and feel the slow, sticky drag of blood sliding down my neck. My jaw throbs with every breath, and the taste of metal floods my mouth like I’ve been chewing on a fucking penny.

I mean it when I lift my chin. “Then fucking kill me, Frank. Because I’d rather bleed on your floor than smile while you think you own me.”

His hand doesn’t rear back this time like I think it will, instead, he reaches for his waistband and pulls out his gun.

“Sign it,” his voice shakes with fury. “Or I’ll put a bullet in you and make your corpse prettier than your attitude.”

Oh fuck.

Good one, Ani. Real clever. Now what?

I just stare down the barrel letting the moment stretch—one long, broken heartbeat of knowing he might actually do it.

But it never comes. Instead, he lowers the gun with a look in his eye that tells me the bullet is still coming—just not yet.

Not before he wrings every last ounce of control from me.

He grabs me by the arm, clamping hard around the bruises already blooming under my skin, and then he yanks me toward him.

I stumble as my legs scream in protest and pain flares down my side.

I let him drag me across the marble like some broken doll he thinks he owns, because maybe, if I make it to the end of this nightmare in one piece, he’ll throw me in a room and lock the door and forget about me long enough for me to figure out how to burn this entire goddamn place down.

The officiant adjusts his tie and looks at us like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Start,” Frank orders.

The man hesitates. “Shouldn’t we—”

“I said start.”

The maybe-priest-maybe-lawyer blinks, like he’s just realized he doesn’t want to be in this room either. His eyes flick to me, then back to Frank. “Do you… do you want to begin with the—”

Frank cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I don’t give a fuck about vows. Skip to the end.”

All I hear is the tick of a clock, and the faint ringing still buzzing in my ears. Across the table, the officiant’s hand trembles as he flips the page again—like even the paper knows this is fucked.

“Please state your full name for the record,” he says.

I don’t answer and Frank’s hand comes down on the table hard enough to rattle the pen. “Say it.”

I lift my eyes to him slowly. My voice is a rasp when it comes out. “Anianne Rivera.”

I hate every second of this. But nothing I’ve tried has worked.

Fighting didn’t work. Stalling didn’t work.

So now—I have to switch tactics. If all Frank wants is my signature and the house that comes with it, then there’s a chance he’ll be satisfied enough to lock me in a room and walk away. That’s what I’m counting on anyway.

If he thinks I’ve given up, maybe he’ll let his guard down. Maybe I’ll get five minutes alone. I just have to stay standing long enough to survive this part. Then I’ll find a way to burn it all down.

The man clears his throat and continues with a line of legal bullshit I barely register.

Something about signatures and transfer of rights and full consent of mind and body.

I could laugh. Consent. That’s rich. I feel like the second I sign that document, something in me will splinter. But I don’t exactly have a choice.

He’ll take the paper, shake the man’s hand, maybe even pour himself another drink. And I’ll be carted upstairs like an afterthought—an inconvenience in heels—tossed into some gilded bedroom with blackout curtains and too much gold trim.

Maybe—if I’m lucky—he’ll leave me there until morning.

I glance sideways, and that’s when I see a single candle—burning low on the dresser behind the table. I remember that candle. I remember lighting it once, a hundred years ago, before I knew what monsters smelled like when they smiled. And just like that, something cracks open inside me.

I was smaller then—my hands still unsteady, and my fingers were too clumsy to strike the match clean on the first try.

The world around me was still soft in a way I didn’t fully understand yet, like it hadn’t decided to be cruel.

It was my birthday. I remember the sound the match made, that sharp rasp followed by the hiss of flame catching.

The air smelled faintly of sugar and smoke.

I didn’t know what grief was yet. Not really. But I understood enough to know no one else was going to fix it. And maybe even then—at that age—I already knew no one was coming to save me. That if I ever wanted more, I’d have to go out and get it myself.

The memory hits like a flare and for one suspended moment, everything else drops away.

I blink once, taking a deep breath. The edges of the room blur, but the clarity inside me sharpens like a blade. My hand moves before I can second-guess it, reaching for the pen with a grip that feels too steady for what I’m about to do.

I wrap my fingers around it and in one quick, ruthless motion, I drive the tip straight into Frank’s wrist.

He makes this awful sound—somewhere between a yell and a grunt—and stumbles back, blood already soaking through the cuff of his fancy-ass shirt.

The lawyer yelps like he just realized this isn’t part of the script. Chairs scrape. Boots move. And then the guards are on me.