“No,” I say simply.
“Fucking take me back.”
“No.”
“Let me out.”
“You didn’t ask nicely,” I observe, almost conversational.
She moves to hit me, arm swinging forward.
I catch her wrist mid-air.
Hard enough that her momentum stops dead.
Hold it suspended like it’s weightless, like she’s a child throwing a tantrum.
Like a collar snapping tight.
Like a warning she should have heeded earlier.
Like a goddamn promise of what happens when she crosses lines.
She freezes, entire body going rigid.
Her breath stops in her throat because this is the first time I’ve touched her like this—really touched her with intent. Not a tug, not a pull, not guidance. A grip that communicates ownership.
Like a collar.
Like a warning.
Like a goddamn promise.
Her eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror, and I don’t blink, don’t look away first.
The car hums beneath us, engine steady. The world narrows to this exact moment, to this exact confrontation.
I squeeze until she makes a sound—not quite pain, not quite a gasp.
Not pain exactly.
Not rage exactly.
Something between the two, something more honest than either and then she slaps me with her free hand.
Full force, palm cracking against my cheek.
Palm against cheek, loud in the closed space of the car, sharp and bright and burning.
The sound cracks through the interior like punctuation, like an exclamation mark on her defiance.
I take it without flinching.
I fucking welcome it, truth be told.
Then I pull the car over to the side of the empty road, put it in park with deliberate slowness, and turn to her like the beast I’ve been keeping beneath my skin is finally done pretending to be civilised.
“You want a fight?” I growl, voice low and dark and intimate in the confined space. “Good. Because I’ve been starving for one.”
