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Instead, he grips his knuckles around the steering wheel.
“Seriously?” he asks. “What happened to trust?”
“It flew out the window when you tricked me.”
He scoffs, a heavy breath rushing from his mouth. “And how exactly did I trick you?” he asks, venom dripping from the words.
“When you brought me here and fucking manipulated me.” I scream, which causes Noah to give me a harsh look.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, “We’ll talk about this when we get home.”
He shifts the Mercedes into gear quickly and pulls us out of the parking lot and onto the road with little effort.
His anger at my question only makes me more adamant. I’ve been compliant, I’ve trusted him like he asked. Now, in return, I want one answer.
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked since you dragged me to your house, without even consulting me. The least you can do is answer one question.” I lean back in the leather seat, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Yeah, Mik? And why should I?” he sneers, navigating the car onto the highway quickly. He’s driving recklessly now, taking his anger out on the gas pedal.
I need to know without a doubt that he didn’t do it. I need to know that I didn’t just set my sister's murderer free.
Even if the answer kills me, I need to hear the truth.
Ever since that night everyone has been trying to protect me, shield me. I don’t want to be protected anymore, I want to know the truth. Even if it takes me down.
I try not to show that his driving scares me, not to reach for a handle. Instead I press my ass into the seat and brace myself.
“She was my sister.” I shout back.
His foot is still pressed down on the gas pedal as he sighs heavily, steering us onto the road.
“I didn’t kill her,” he finally says. He’s still tense, teeth gritted.
I don’t ask a follow up question, I let him stew as he races us back to the house. I don’t want to anger him any more than I already have, but I won’t back down.
I deserve to fucking know after I just saved his ass.
He pulls into the driveway, slamming on the brakes until the car lurches to a stop. I’m thankful for the seatbelt that pushes me back into the seat after his quick stop.
Hastily, he exits the car, moving to my side to open the door and pull me out of the car by my dress, the fabric ripping as he does so. He drags me into the house, pulling me behind him even as I stumble in my high heels. Once inside he swings the door shut and slams me into the foyer wall.
A hand snakes up around my throat. “Do you really think I would do that? That I could do that?” he asks, his pupils are dark, nearly black as they look into my eyes.
“That you could kill someone?” I ask, the question coming out hoarse.
I do think Noah could kill someone, I wouldn’t put it past him at all.
The Bancrofts aren’t clean by any means, as one of the wealthiest families in the country they’ve had their hands in many deaths.
“To you,” he adds, a clarification. “Do you really think I could do that to you?”
No. The answer lingers on the tip of my tongue.
He’s a bully. A prick. A colossal asshole.
But no.
I don’t think he would hurt me like that. In other ways sure, but not like that.
