He pulls out too fast, tyres shrieking against concrete as we tear out of the parking lot, the sound echoing behind us like a warning left too late.
And as the hospital disappears in the rear-view mirror, I realise this silence is not mercy.
It’s restraint.
His hands are locked tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, jaw set. His eyes never leave the road. Every muscle in him looks coiled, restrained by force of will alone.
I hesitate, then reach out, resting my hand against his arm. I give it a tentative squeeze, as if testing how close I can get before something snaps.
“What’s going on, Khai?” I ask quietly, keeping my voice level. Calm feels like the only weapon I have left.
He glances at me, just once. There’s too much in that look. Then his attention is back on the road, the silence swallowing my question whole.
Slowly, I pull my hand away.
I fold my arms over my chest and turn toward the window, staring out into the blur of passing lights. Fine. If he wants silence, I can survive that too.
Then the streets start to look wrong.
My stomach tightens as I register the turn he takes. The next one confirms it.
“You said you were taking me home,” I say, snapping my head back toward him.
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile, something colder. Amused. Certain.
“I am,” he replies, a quiet chuckle slipping out. “My home.”
“I want to go to my apartment.”
“No.”
The single word lands heavy, final.
“Why, Khai?” I demand.
He flicks his gaze to me briefly, eyes dark, unreadable. “Because I want you in my house.”
The ease with which he says it is what unnerves me most.
“I don’t have anything with me,” I argue, exhaling sharply. “No clothes. None of the things I need.”
“That won’t be a problem,” he says smoothly. “My men can collect whatever you want from your apartment.”
Then, without looking at me, he adds, “But you’re coming home with me.”
There’s no room for negotiation. No space left to push back.
All I can do is stare at him, shock buzzing under my skin, as the road stretches on, carrying me somewhere I didn’t agree to, but can no longer stop.
It doesn’t take long before the truck disappears underground, swallowed by the shadows of his building’s private parking garage. The engine cuts off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
He gets out first.
Just like before, he comes around to my side and opens the door himself, offering his hand as if the gesture alone makes this anything other than what it is. I hesitate only a second before taking it, letting him guide me down from the truck.
He doesn’t let go.
His fingers wrap around mine, firm, unyielding, like he’s afraid the moment he releases me I’ll bolt, or worse, vanish entirely. The thought settles uneasily in my chest.
