Page 69 of Full Throttle

“Marchmont. Stop.”

Juliette narrowed her eyes. “Get out of my way.”

“I’m not an expert,” Dominic said, his jaw tensed, “but it occurs to me that the treatment for bruised ribs isn’t going for a joyride in a car that has an issue with the hydraulic braking system.”

She whistled. “Long sentence. Good for you.”

If her childish insults irritated him, Dominic showed no sign of it. “Who gave you permission to take the car out?”

Nobody. But he knew that. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Move. Or I’ll run you over.”

“Out,” Dominic growled. “Now.”

“Or what?” Her irritation was growing, fueled by a sense of righteousness. He didn’t get it; she needed this. Needed to prove to herself that she was a good driver, that she was capable of more than smashing into walls. “Or you’ll report me?”

“Or I’ll carry you out myself.”

Juliette snorted. “Typical.”

“What?”

She glanced at her mirror. “You, making decisions for the both of us.”

She let the sentence hang, like a grenade thrown between them. Dominic looked up, as if praying for patience. “I don’t have time for this today, Marchmont. Out. Now.”

She set her chin. “No.”

“Last chance,” Dominic warned.

“I said—”

Her body went airborne. Juliette swore, kicking out wildly, but Dominic was immovable; one moment she was in the car, and the next her back was striking the wall. He yanked her shirt up. His dark eyes were assessing, his hands firm but clinical. Hot blood rushed through her, with annoyance quick on its heels.

“Hastings!” Juliette twisted in his grip. “What the hell are you doing?”

He moved her bandages. “Checking your bruising.”

“Stop pawing at me!”

“Hold still,” Dominic growled.

Indignation rose in her chest. “My injuries are none of your goddamn concern—”

“Well, it has to be someone’s concern,” Dominic said tightly, “because clearly you don’t give a shit about your own well-being. You’re so goddamn stubborn.” His gaze flicked over her bruising, and he inhaled sharply. “This is nasty.”

Juliette yanked her shirt down, her cheeks burning. “That’s your official medical diagnosis? Nasty?”

She’d glimpsed the bruising earlier, and it had reminded her of moldering grapes, the way the skin became squishy. Her hair was falling out of its hold, and she was almost positive she had oil on her face. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, she told herself firmly, but it was pointless. She cared. She couldn’t help but care.

Dominic’s dark eyes were burning coals. “Does Ranya know how bad it is?”

She glared. “None of your business.”

Dominic exhaled. “In other words, no.” He ran a hand over his face. “You shouldn’t race next weekend.”

Something vicious filled her. “Oh, yeah. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? A chance for me to get replaced by a reserve driver. Well, guess what?” She stepped closer, fire burning in her chest. “Not fucking happening.”

Dominic let out a growl of frustration. “For god’s sake, that’s not what I—” He closed his eyes, as if trying to regain control of himself. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground, Marchmont. And for what? To prove a point?”