Page 71 of Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy 2)
“Whoa. Where did that come from?”
Mount glances over his shoulder as he walks to the wall to punch a code into a keypad next to a metal box. “My collection.”
When the door swings open, he pulls out the keys and closes it again. He uses one to open the trunk, and I take a step back.
“What? Afraid there’s going to be a body inside?”
“Is that humor? Did you just make a joke?”
An airport employee comes rushing in with our luggage before Mount can respond. Once the luggage is in the trunk, he unlocks the passenger side door for me.
“I don’t joke.”
“Bullshit,” I say, unable to stop myself.
His eyes narrow on me. “The rules are different now—”
“Now that we’re back? I’m getting that.” I settle myself in the seat and huff out a harsh laugh. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. After all, you have your reputation to uphold, and you never know who’s watching here.”
As his expression darkens, I look away, focusing on the award cradled in my lap. One piece of tangible proof I actually get to keep from this trip.
Mount slams my door and rounds the hood. When he takes the driver’s side of the bench seat and jams the keys into the ignition, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.
Even if he wanted to be the man he was in Ireland, it’s not possible here.
The engine roars to life, its growl perfectly suiting the temperament of the man driving it. He lets it warm up for a few minutes, both of us sitting in tense silence, before he backs it out and guns it.
I stare out the window, but instead of soaking up every bit of the city like I did in Dublin, I see nothing as we fly through the familiar streets.
I’m one hundred percent certain he’s breaking speed limits, but what cop would give him a ticket for it? He probably has most of them on his payroll.
We close in on the French Quarter, and instead of taking one of the convoluted routes I’m used to Scar driving, Mount heads through the heart of it toward home.
Home.
I scoff at the word silently. That’s not what it is, and I’m an idiot if I think it’s anything but the same lavish prison cell it was before we left.
We’re not dancing in Dublin anymore.
Mount slows for a few pedestrians at a stop sign before punching the gas and jerking the wheel hard to the right. The car rockets forward, tires squealing, and his body swings toward me as he turns.
“Fuck!”
What the hell?
His body arches further toward mine, and everything turns to chaos.
People say when traumatic things happen, the world decelerates so you can see it unfold in slow motion.
It doesn’t work like that for me.
The driver’s side window shatters, glass shards flying everywhere. The only thing I comprehend is pain as Mount jerks the wheel again and my head slams against my window. The car crashes into a lamppost before toppling it and coming to a halt.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Holes punch through the spiderwebbed windshield.
Shocked, I struggle to draw in a breath, but I can’t.
