The metallic taste of blood is still in my mouth when I straighten slowly in the back seat, and I do not give myself time to think about what I am doing or whether I should be afraid of what comes next.
I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand.
Then I turn and punch him.
My fist connects with his jaw hard enough that the impact vibrates straight up my arm, and pain flares across my knuckles, but I do not care.
Ezra’s head snaps to the side.
For half a second, no one moves.
The car keeps rolling forward, tires humming against the road, but inside the vehicle everything goes deathly still.
Ezra stares at me.
Not shocked.
Not surprised.
Furious.
Pure, incandescent rage burns in his eyes, and I know exactly what he wants to do, and I know exactly what he is capable of.
