The nerve of him. My blood boils as I pull against the restraint again, the metal digging into my wrist. "You can't just handcuff me to your car, Caleb! This is kidnapping!"
His eyebrows lift, amusement dancing in those infuriating blue eyes. "Kidnapping? That's a stretch. You jumped into my car, remember? This is… well, think of it as... protective custody."
"Protective—" I sputter, searching for words venomous enough to match my fury. "Let me go. Now."
"No can do." He crosses his arms, completely unmoved by my rage. “Someone’s got to save you from your own stupid decisions. If you behave yourself, I’ll drop you back at your car later.”
Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he shuts the door in my face. The sound of it slamming resonates through me, and for a moment, my entire world compresses to the small space inside this car. I am stunned into silence. Stunned by his audacity, his sheer nerve, the way he acts as if he can just do this to me and walk away. For a long, incredulous second, I just sit here, trapped and blinking at my captive wrist like my brain can't quite grasp the outrageous reality of this man, this situation. My vision blurs with the heat of my fury.
Until I see him again.
He's swaggering toward the back of the car with a casual self-assurance that makes rage trickle through my veins like a slow-working poison. His entire demeanor is infuriatingly calm and absolute, all broad shoulders and insufferable arrogance. He moves like he owns the world and everything in it, including me. My eyes follow him, a burning intensity in my gaze, as he reaches Ricky’s limp, bloody body. He grabs him, deadweight that he is, like he’s lifting a goddamn bag of flour. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing. Something snaps inside me, and the rage in my chest is a lit fuse, burning its way straight to an explosion.
“You can’t do this!” I yell, my voice raw with indignation, twisting against the cuffs with renewed energy. The metal bites into my skin as I yank against it, but I don’t care. The anger bubbles up, impossible to contain. “You can’t just leave me here!” My words punch through the night, sharp and furious. But they barely reach him. He just laughs. A deep, booming laugh, so infuriatingly confident and arrogant as hell that it vibrates through my ribs. It’s not just a laugh; it’s a challenge. The sound taunts me, like he’s saying I don’t matter. Like I’m some yapping little dog, not even worthy of a response, and he’s completely unbothered by me.
That’s it.
That’s fucking it.
I let the anger take over, my frustration and disbelief and defiance fusing into a single, reckless action. I slam my palm down on the horn. A long, blaring wail rips through the night, cutting into the quiet with reckless abandon. It’s a beast of a sound, loud and jarring, the kind that demands attention and refuses to be ignored. Tank flinches, and I feel a savage satisfaction as I see him scowling over his shoulder. I keep my hand there, letting the noise speak for me, knowing it’s the only language he can’t tune out.
“What the hell—” he shouts, turning back in disbelief.
I hold it down. Louder, longer, my fury unfurling with each shrill blast that fills the air and echoes off the trees. It’s so relentless, so consuming, like I can drown him in sound, wash away his composure in a wave of noise. I will not let this go. I will not let him win.
“Stop with the goddamn horn,” he hollers again, dumping Ricky unceremoniously on the ground before stomping toward the car. His body tenses with frustration, his movements stiff with annoyance. “That’s not gonna—”
I don’t stop. I press harder, glaring at him through the windshield. I see the anger in his eyes, his control slipping as I refuse to let up, refuse to give in. I want to break through that calm of his, to make him see that I’m not just some pawn he can move around.
Tank yanks the door open, metal rattling, and leans in close. He’s all heat and muscle and barely contained irritation, his presence filling up the space around me. His breath is hot against my cheek, and I can feel his anger simmering in the air between us.
“You done?” he growls.
I smile. Sweet. Innocent. Full of venom. "Are you done?” I fire the words at him with unrestrained defiance, and before he can reply, I slam my fist against the dashboard. There is a distinct pop, and the glove compartment jostles open with a shake. I see something spill out, and for a split second, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing.
I blink hard. Once. Twice.
A fucking flare gun.
For a heartbeat, time stretches, and all I can do is stare at it, bewildered at the absurdity of this situation. Who the hell keeps a flare gun in their glove compartment? Then it all comes together, the pieces snapping into place like a cruel joke designed just for me. Of course. Of course, this guy does. Caleb "Tank" Morgan. I’m almost surprised he doesn’t have something more dangerous stashed around, like a pistol, a grenade, or a tucked-away bazooka.
I grab it and flip the safety off in a flash, my movements quick and decisive, and I aim it right at Tank's broad, stupidly muscular chest. I half expect him to flinch, to show some hint of fear, but he doesn't even blink. His expression doesn't change at all. It remains calm, composed, and infuriatingly indifferent, like he's in on some private joke that I'm not. His eyes flicker from the barrel of the flare gun straight back to mine, with a cool detachment that sets my blood on fire.
I lick my lips, hands steady, voice lethal. "I won’t hesitate to burn you to ashes if you don’t stop what you’re doing right fucking now."
Tank grins. Slow. Predatory. Like I just proved something to him.
He comes closer, leaning forward deliberately, making my heart pound faster.
"Go ahead, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Pull the trigger. Let’s see if you actually got it in you."
His voice is low, rough, daring. A challenge. Tank really wants me to shoot him. I’d say he’s lost his mind, except I’ve already seen plenty of proof of that fact already, considering he beat the crap out of Ricky, kidnapped him, and he’s kidnapped me.
My fingers tighten on the grip. My pulse pounds against my ribs. And I realize this isn’t about Ricky anymore — this is about us; about who’s going to break first; about who’s really in control; about who’s willing to do whatever it takes to get their way.
Tank doesn’t know just how dedicated I am.
With a slow exhale, I curl my finger around the trigger, and I pull.
