Page 90 of Maddening Fixation

It would have crushed the driver’s side.

It would have killed me.

I closed my eyes briefly, forcing myself to inhale.

Then exhale.

Years of growing up in a Bratva household had taught me how to react under pressure before fear had the chance to take over.

Tonight, those instincts had saved my life.

“That was too close,” I whispered hoarsely.

The words had barely left my lips when the driver’s door was ripped open.

I gasped.

A man stumbled toward the opening, nearly collapsing against the frame before throwing himself inside my car.

The passenger seat dipped beneath his weight.

The smell hit me immediately.

The unmistakable smell of fresh blood, heavy and metallic.

Dark crimson soaked through his black shirt, dripping steadily onto the cream leather upholstery.

Deep cuts marked both forearms, and a jagged wound stretched across one side of his face, blood trailing down his jaw and disappearing beneath his collar.

He slammed the passenger door shut with obvious effort.

“Drive.”

The command came low and rough, strained by pain but leaving no room for argument.

I turned to him in disbelief.

“What are you doing? Who are—”

“Drive.”

Not louder. Just colder.

The kind of command that expected obedience.

His head turned sharply toward the rear window, scanning the empty street behind us.

He wasn’t panicking.

He was hunting.

Every muscle in his body remained coiled despite the blood pouring from his wounds.

There was something almost animalistic about the way he watched the darkness.

When he looked back at me, his eyes were hard enough to make my pulse skip.

“I won’t ask again.”