“Then allow me to provide you with something more engaging.” His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, delicate patterns of frost creeping over the leather. “Because the first song you blasted had no lyrical depth. The second was an insult to rhythm. And the third was just… noise.”
I glare at him, even though he was right about the first one.
“Youwouldbe a music snob,” I mutter.
He arches a brow. “I prefer taste over self-inflicted torture.”
He’s more insufferable by the second.
I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at him again.
“So, I suppose you have a refined, regaltastein classical compositions, Your Highness?” I say, letting sarcasm drip from every word. “Maybe some brooding orchestral pieces to match your whole frozen heart aesthetic?”
“I prefer the sound of me correcting your form when you spar.” He smirks, then adds, “Your Highness.”
“Call me that again, and you’re walking to Montauk,” I snap, turning the music back up—but notallthe way up.
He glances at the console, but this time, he doesn’t touch it.
“I see you’re leaving me to strategize alone about how to keep us alive,” he muses. “Therefore not giving yourself a chance to voice your opinions and have a say in your future.”
He shifts gears effortlessly.
“You hate me because I made decisions for you,” he continues, “and now you hate me because I’m trying to have a conversation with you. There really is no winning, is there?”
My magic surges, sending so much wind blasting through the car that the dashboard vents rattle, as if a storm has burst to life.
He barely reacts. He doesn’t tense, doesn’t glance at me, and doesn’t bother telling me to calm down.
“The mysterious cloaked girl ominously waiting in the park to assign us a deadly quest said we were supposed to drive away from the storm,” he says. “Not bring it into the car with us.”
I force a breath through my nose, clenching my fists to keep them from shaking.
The storm dies down, but I can still feel it thrumming beneath my skin, ready to lash out again the next time he decides to push me.
“Then talk,” I say, lowering the volume—just a little. “Strategize. Whatever you need to do to keep yourself and your favorite asset alive.”
His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. But then, just as quickly, his face hardens, becoming cold and detached.
“Don’t you mean to keep me and mywifealive?” he finally says, and the frost on the steering wheel thickens, creeping up his wrists like a silent tether.
I don’t dignify him with a response. I just cross my arms again, focus on the suburbs rolling by alongside the highway, and let him speak.
