Page 195 of His To Erase
He doesn’t flinch or even look at me. “I figured we’d drive for a bit. Catch up. You’ve been quiet lately.”
My heart starts thudding. “I said I was fine.”
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s what worries me.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to look at me again. When he finally does, he flashes that careful smile, the one that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Funny how that only makes it worse.
“You’re not taking me home?” I whisper, mostly to myself. Because deep down, I already know the answer.
His smile widens slowly. “Of course I am, Ani. Just not the place you keep running back to.”
And that’s when it clicks. Something is wrong. Really wrong. He doesn’t say another word when we pull up—just eases the car to a smooth stop in front of a house I’ve never seen before. It's set back behind a massive gate and hedges so thick you wouldn’t even know there was a driveway unless you were specifically looking for it.
My pulse jumps, loud in my ears. The house is sleek, all sharp lines and privacy. Nothing about it is warm, and yet, it feels unmistakably his. Every inch of it.
Every warning bell inside me starts to ring and not softly as I try not to panic. “Where the hell are we?”
Ani
Frank kills the engine without answering, and the silence stretches. I stay frozen, watching him get out, then slam the door shut. I grip my phone tighter, staring straight ahead. Maybe if I don’t move, I can pretend none of this is happening. Then the door is yanked open.
“Ani,” he says, voice lower now. “Get out of the car.”
I lift my chin defiantly. “Can you please just take me home?”
He exhales through his nose like he’s counting to ten in a room full of triggers.
“You can either get out by yourself,” he repeats, voice harder now, “or I throw you over my shoulder and take you inside.”
That does it. I whip around, heat rising fast and furious. “Frank, I’m not in the mood and I’m not staying here.”
He crouches slightly, one hand braced on the frame of the car—and everything about him shifts. The mask he’s always wearing falls. Gone is the charming man with dinner reservations and polite smiles. This is something colder.
“I’ve waited long enough for you to get on board,” he says quietly. “I gave you time, patience, and space. I bent over backwards trying to let you come to this on your own.”
I stare at him.What the fuck is he talking about?
He clears his throat and the air gets smaller. “I’m done waiting.”
“I—” I start, but he lifts a finger. That same fucking finger he used to brush hair behind my ear. A move that used to feel sweet. Now it feels loaded.
“You don’t have to say yes,” he says. “Just let it happen.”
A slow freeze spreads through my limbs, because somewhere in that twisted logic, he actually believes this is going to work out. I guess I only have myself to blame for that, I like having him around, but I just don’t think I want to date him.
“That’s the thing about consent,” he murmurs. “Sometimes silence speaks louder.”
My mouth opens—but nothing comes out. I bolt upright in the seat, panic rising in my throat. “I’m not going inside with you.”
“You are.”
“Or what?”
He doesn’t answer, instead, he just straightens slowly. He exhales and the mask slides back into place with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
