"My house is a few houses ahead! Not this one!" Fedora snapped, his voice a brittle whip-crack against the sterile silence of the car. He stole a side-long, jagged gaze at the unfamiliar, imposing gates Miguel had pulled up to.
Fedora stared at the man, waiting for a reaction, for Miguel to make a move, to drop the act. Still, Miguel said nothing; he only twisted his body, contorting into an awkward, heavy-limbed position that forced him to face the backseat.
He loomed there, watching Fedora, who sat simmering in the shadows of the interior, his skin prickling with a hot, frantic irritation.
When his first words hung in the stagnant air, unacknowledged, Fedora started again, his voice dropping into that dangerous, forced calm.
