Page 57 of Bound in Ruin

I stare down at her, my jaw locking so tight a muscle twitches in my cheek. The absurdity of her logic burns, but the accusation stings even more. I hold her furious gaze for three long seconds, feeling my resolve crack right down the middle.

"Fine," I growl, shutting the passenger door with a metallic thud and tossing her the keys. "Get in."

A victorious smirk touches her lips as she catches the keys and slides into the driver's seat. I round the hood and pull myself into the passenger side, adjusting my broad frame into the tight leather interior.

Within thirty seconds, it becomes glaringly obvious that she has no idea how to manage a vintage manual transmission.

She turns the key, the massive V8 engine roaring to life with a throat-clearing rumble that shakes the entire garage. But as soon as she tries to shift into first gear and release the clutch, the car violently lurches forward three inches and dies with a horrific, metallic choke.

Clunk.

Silence fills the car.

"Gently," I instruct, keeping my voice clipped. "You’re dumping the clutch too fast. Keep your left foot steady while you give it gas."

Rosalia bites her lip, turns the key again, and tries to ease off the pedal.

Jerk.

Stall.

"You're rushing it," I say, my instincts kicking in as I lean over, my tone growing sharper, more rigid. "Listen to the engine, Rosalia! Don't just slam your foot down! Hold the point of engagement, let the gear catch, and then press the accelerator!"

She turns the key a third time, her hands tightening around the steering wheel until her knuckles turn stark white. She attempts to pull forward again, but the Stingray bucks like a wild horse and stalls out for the third time in a row.

"That's enough," I snap, reaching over to grab the keys. "You're going to burn out the clutch. Shift over, I'll drive⁠—"

"Stop bossing me around!" Rosalia snaps, slapping my hand away from the ignition with a sharp crack, her chest heaving as she glares at me with pure venom. "Stop treating me like one of your men! If you're going to teach me, then actually teach me, Dominic, instead of barking orders like a drill sergeant!"

What?

Is she insane?

Nobody slaps my hand.

Nobody speaks to me like I’m some low-level soldier stepping out of line.

My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache, a surge of pure, volatile fury blinding me for a fraction of a second. I reach over, press the button on the side of her leather seat, and jerk the release, forcing her seat to slide back with a loud, metallic track-snap to give me room.

Before she can even process what's happening, I unbuckle my belt, lean straight across the center console, and crowd her entirely against the driver's side door, trapping her beneath my frame.

"You watch your tone with me, Rosalia," I growl, my voice a lethal vibration against her jaw. I wrap my fingers firmly around the back of her neck, tilting her head up so she has no choice but to swallow the rage burning in my eyes.

"You want to drive my car? You follow my instructions. You do not hit me, and you sure as hell do not scream at me like I'm some dog you can order around."

"I am not one of your soldiers, Dominic!" she snaps back instantly, her chest heaving against mine, zero fear in her eyes—only a fierce, reckless defiance that makes my blood boil hot enough to scorch. "You don't own me. You don’t tell me what to do!"

"You're my wife," I growl, my hand tightening on her neck, my eyes dropping to her mouth. "And right now, you're driving me fucking insane."

"Then do something about it!" she challenges, leaning right up into my space, her breath coming in hot, desperate hitches.

That's all it takes.

The last thread of my restraint snaps cleanly in half.

I crash my mouth down onto hers, smothering her breath with a harsh, punishing kiss that tastes like fire and adrenaline. She lets out a sharp gasp against my lips, her hands instantly flying to my chest, but instead of pushing me away, her fingers claw into my shirt, dragging me down on top of her.

I reach down, grabbing her thigh, and hoist her up over the center console until she's sitting in my lap in the cramped, tight space of the driver's seat. The leather creaks violently under our weight. I yank her pants down her legs in one rough, impatient tear, throwing them onto the floorboards, while her hands frantically tear at the buttons of my shirt.