Cyril
“Get in the car Cyril, now!”
Given the tone, he used. I knew there was no room for bargaining. So, I hopped in.
I sat in the passenger seat, the leather of my pants squeaking softly as I shifted, stealing glances at Alan through the periphery of my vision.
His profile was a study in repressed violence.
His jaw was set so hard I could see the muscle jumping in his cheek, and his hands gripped the steering wheel with such force that the veins on the back of his hands stood out like topographical maps.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even look at me.
But the air around him was thick with a cold, electric fury that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I tilted my head, watching the way the streetlights danced across his sharp features.
I didn't understand the depth of his react
