“Tired of running around?” The iron tones in my husband’s voice scrape straight over my nerves. Seeing that I shake my head negatively, he clenches his teeth—yet almost at once his clearly outlined lips stretch into a dangerous smile.
“By good means or by bad,” he says in an ultimatum before I can even open my mouth—“but you’re going with me. If you prefer, then right in this trunk.” With those words, Bogdan suddenly and so quickly folds me inside, bending my head so I can only protest after he mercilessly slams the lid shut.