“Where are we going?” she demands.
“Away from here.”
“That’s not a fucking answer.”
I glance at her—reallylook this time.
Dark hair spilling loose around her face, sharp eyes like cut glass, her jaw locked tight like she’s one wrong word away from biting. She’s all angles and defiance. Her shirt hangs off one shoulder, the seam split clean down the fabric like it gave up trying to contain her, a flash of skin there that feels accidental and dangerous all at once.
And thatsmell.
That goddamn marshmallow scent is everywhere—sweet, soft, completely wrong for a girl who looks like she’d stab first and ask questions never. It clings to the car’s interior, seeps into my lungs, like she bathed in it and brought the trouble with her.
It’s distracting. Makes my head fuzzy in a way bullets don’t.
“You always keep a gun in your glove compartment?” I ask.
“You always carjack random people during shootouts?”
Fair.
I take another turn, checking the mirrors. No headlights. No sirens yet. We might’ve actually lost them.
My shoulder screams. I shift my grip on the wheel, feel the warm slide of blood on my skin.
“You’re bleeding,” she says flatly.
“I’m aware.”
“You need a hospital.”
“No hospitals.”
She laughs—sharp, bitter. “Of course not. Why would a Korsakov who just stole my car and got me shot at want medical attention?”
“No one shot at you. They shot at me.”
I pause.
“You know who I am.”
She glances at me. “Your hair is blue. There’s no other gangster walking around with neon hair.”
I can’t argue with that logic.
I turn down another street, darker this time. Residential. Quiet. I’m close to my safe house, but my vision swims at the edges. Adrenaline’s crashing hard now, leaving nothing but pain and exhaustion.
“Pull over,” she says.
“No.”
“You’re going to pass out and crash this piece of shit, and then we’re both dead.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding all over my car seat, you moron.”
I grit my teeth. She’s right. I fucking hate that.
