Page 23 of His To Erase
Oh.
Oh, honey.
He really picked the wrong girl for this conversation. Especially tonight of all nights. Please, fuck around and find out.
I don’t give him the chance to finish his next word. I grab the back of his collar and yank—hard. And there’s a beat where his brain short-circuits, his feet stumble, and his expression goes from cocky to confused in the span of half a second.
Good.
I don’t wait for him to recover. Don’t give him the dignity of catching up before I shove him straight toward the door with the kind of force that’s been building in my chest all fucking night.
His friend stumbles after him, arms flailing like a cartoon idiot, barely catching himself before I decide to make him my next project.
“Out,” I snap, the word sharp enough to draw blood. “Before I call the cops, or better—before I stop holding back.”
The whole bar’s watching now, but I don’t care. Let them remember what happens when you mistake short for soft.
“And don’t come back,” I add as the door slams shut behind them. “Ever.”
I turn back toward the bar, pulse hammering, hair stuck to the back of my neck, and absolutely zero regrets.
Not even two minutes later, some idiot decides to test my patience again. Because apparently, tonight is Let’s See How Far We Can Push the Bartender night.
A hand is suddenly, inappropriately low on my waist, fingers curling like they belong there. Then it slides lower.
The laugh that follows is low and slurred with cheap liquor and an overinflated ego.
I don’t think. I react.
My fingers wrap around his wrist in a flash, twisting it back hard and fast—not enough to break it, but enough to make a point.
He gasps, and the sound is choked and ugly, like the realization is just catching up to him mid-breath.
His whole body jerks, stumbling toward me as his eyes go wide.
“Don’t,” I growl, “ever touch me like that again.”
He tries to say something—some drunk defense, some pathetic plea—but I give his wrist a little more pressure, just enough to cut the words off before they can crawl out of his throat.
I should stop there. I know I should, but logic never wins with me. Because for one dark, flickering second, I want to feel it.
The shift. The snap. The break.
I want to feel bones give under my grip. I want to hear that sharp, unmistakable crack—the kind of sound you don’t forget.
A reminder that girls like me aren’t here for your amusement. That the next time he reaches for someone, he’ll think twice—and maybe the time after that, he won’t reach at all.
I hate the way the thought coils in my chest like it belongs there.
Instead, I shove him. Hard. Right toward the bouncers, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw pops.
His face goes red—humiliation flushed across his skin like a slap—rage simmering just below the surface, but I don’t care.
The bouncer grabs him without ceremony, yanking him toward the exit like he’s trash that stayed too long at the party.
He stumbles, sputtering, but doesn’t say a word. Not with my eyes on him. And not with everyone watching.
Another problem solved.
